Farewell Happy Fields
by Nyanoka
Summary: Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be. Crosspost from AO3. M/M, Slowburn.
1. Village Virus

There's a certain Slant of light,  
Winter Afternoons –  
That oppresses, like the Heft  
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –  
We can find no scar,  
But internal difference –  
Where the Meanings, are –

— "258," Emily Dickinson

Watersmeet was a drab little town in the near middle of nowhere; it was the kind of town where everyone knew almost everyone, and gossip proliferated like roaches on rotting garbage. It was the very definition of "podunk." It was the kind of town that anyone with an ounce of rationality or logic would want to leave once the novelty of childhood wore off and once the realization of its simplicity settled in.

It was a pretty, if uninteresting, place, an amalgamation of every small-town cliché. The buildings could be described as typical, if somewhat on the small side, in appearance. The roads were well-kept—standard concrete grey, murky yellow paint, and crisp white lines—and sided by neatly trimmed grass and a scattering of trout lilies, black-eyed Susans, and depending on the season, dandelions (if the children hadn't plucked them up in their revelry and rowdy games anyway).

Even the trees—a mix of yellow birch, sugar maple, and white oak—were average, not exceptionally tall or bizarrely short. Their trunks were thick, though not exceedingly old or scarred, and the bird's nests, brown hovels upon browner bark, were securely tucked in-between the reliable, twisting branches and the swaying leaves.

The town was _quaint_ in every sense of the word, the kind of quaintness that often clung to its residents like mildew and never quite let go, even when they left and sometimes never returned. It went with those that left for university, giddy and hopeful, if somewhat anxious for the future, it went with those that traveled from town to town and to city to city, carrying sales pitches and other commodities, and it left with the vacationers, eyes alight with excitement and wonder for their next destination.

It left with everyone and never quite let go.

The essence of Watersmeet lingered in the accents of those that left, their attires, either overly showy, as if compensating for some perceived or imagined shortcoming, or too modest by popular standards; it was a microcosm of Watersmeet and its traditions.

Though as dull as some people found it, they could not say they were lacking in the basic necessities.

The town had a grocery store, anchored to the corner of Second Street and whose advertising consisted solely of word-of-mouth and a few posters, with neat slightly slanting cursive, taped crookedly to the storefront's windows. It was a homely sort of store that sold local produce—bottled honey and crisp apples and fresh milk among other commodities—and handicrafts. It was the kind that most would simply only see as a rest stop, an in-between between start and destination, on a long road trip rather than as a longstanding facet of some other person's existence.

Three streets over, there was a community bank that opened precisely at 9 a.m. and closed at 5 p.m. on Tuesdays to Saturdays—closing entirely on Mondays and Sundays and various, assorted holidays—and four buildings to the left of it was the local gas station. It was a fairly tiny place even by Watersmeet's standards, more of a prerequisite of modern living than any natural, welcomed landmark of the town, with six garishly painted gas pumps that stood beneath a shiny red canopy emblazoned with the gas company's name in white block lettering.

It was the kind of town where the most exciting and beloved establishment was the public library rather than a shopping center or a drive-in theater. Though, that was, in part, because they had neither. Instead, they had few modest boutiques—window displays bearing primarily floral patterns—here and there, a few scruffy, though no less friendly, diners and some family-owned restaurants elsewhere, and so forth.

On films themselves, they (if one wanted to see them on a theater screen) were often considered a luxury, something to be saved for special occasions, such as birthdays or family get-togethers, rather than as a regular affair. Though, that was unsurprising if one considered the fact that the closest theater was an hour away, and public transit required one to jam one's self into a tightly crammed bus and engage with other people, willingly or not.

All-around, it was a hassle for many of the town's residents, most of whom did not have access to private motorized transportation, too expensive to maintain in such a town where most necessities and locations could be reached on foot, by bike, or through a neighbor's favor.

Watersmeet was a town reluctant to change in some respects, and as a result, it was a contradiction that defied both modernity and practicality and almost solely adhered to legacy.

Returning to the library, the building, longstanding (and arguably the oldest site in town), was a source of pride for Watersmeet's residents; it was a location that everyone invested into to, whether it was time, donations, or even just the occasional, dusty box of books found in the attic.

It was the kind of town where one's everyday excitement was found in either one's routine or in the breaking of such.

For example, the most excitement that they had was when Nixon had passed through a few years back, eager and hot on the heels of a potential campaign victory.

It was the kind of place that was more representative of the average white picket fence dream than anything else. Safe, serene, yet wholly forgettable to the outside world.

It was picturesque in a way that was delightful to anyone who hadn't been immersed in its normality since birth.

Thus, it was quite unsurprising that Kiran hated Watersmeet with a near-unrivaled passion. But, he hated the fact that he could not leave much more.

Five-and-twenty years of age and Kiran had not amounted to anything he would consider worthwhile in his life nor had he left Watersmeet for any substantial and meaningful period of time. The longest he had stayed outside of his town was about a month, and even then, that particular month, a particularly balmy April, had been spent mostly in a hospital watching cars—blurs of ruddy red, shining silvers, and brash blues and blaring horns—pass by on the streets below his room's window.

Health complications, bland hospital food, and rising medical bills were all he had gotten from that particular experience, nothing worldly or worthwhile in Kiran's opinion.

Perhaps, it was because of youth and folly, an unfortunate draw of genetics, or simply a mixture of both, but Kiran had been blessed with a poor body and poorer luck. Injury and illness, whether it was something as simple as the common cold or as harmful as a lower respiratory infection, tended to follow him wherever he went, like a particularly persistent and eager dog hungry for treats.

Thus, in his younger years, he'd frequently spent his after-school afternoons reading borrowed library books until his room dimmed into dusk—the stars outside his bedroom window blinking a friendly greeting with their brilliance—and his mother called for bedtime. Of course, he'd often continue reading anyway, waiting until his parents retired to their shared room before beginning again with the help of a flashlight and the spark of stars. To the tune of fawning frogs and with the company of the low-hanging moon's gleam, Kiran often read until the small hours of the morning.

Of course, his penchant for reading was further aided by his parents in his even more minuscule years. Before he could capably grasp at and understand the words that dotted and slid along the pages, his mother and father read to him—lullabies in the dark of the world.

His favorites—ones that he reread with notable regularity—were often of fantastical nature. _Lord of the Rings_ and _The Chronicles of Narnia_, with preference for _Prince Caspian_, were all adored affairs for him. It wasn't necessarily "highbrow" reading for some, but it was in these fantastical worlds and notions that he found solace in.

Often, Kiran found himself wishing that he lived in such a world, filled with wonder and adventure, rather than predictable life in dull Watersmeet. It was simply easier to imagine himself as someone important, as someone others relied on, and as someone who could control reality with magic and enchantments rather than his genuine state: a sickly boy with little social grace.

It was simpler to imagine himself as healthy and happy.

Furthermore, he often didn't have the stamina needed for any task more strenuous than a light jog which further restricted the activities in which he pursued.

When the weather changed from spring's shy kiss to summer's cordial embrace, he had not ridden bikes, weaving in between mailboxes and trash bins in makeshift racecourses, or played make-believe with gallant, kindly knights and devious dragons and distressed damsels with his neighbors.

He had often decline their invitations to play and their offers to let him be the damsel, the ailing prince in peril. His parents never pushed him much towards socialization either, too used to Kiran's behavior and penchant for solitude.

Instead, he, alongside his readings, spent his afternoons learning various crafts, writing and painting with whatever supplies his allowance allowed him. His early works were not naturally pleasing, too crude and with the clumsy markings of a novice, but he had kept practicing until the colors blended and flowed into familiar scenes—the local farm, the idyllic forests surrounding town, and so forth—and his words melded together euphoniously.

Life ambled forward until he graduated from high school alongside his peers. Some moved onward, outside of Watersmeet and its novelties and to university, others married and settled down into town or nearby, and others still simply just traveled. Though, Kiran did not keep track of their specific whereabouts for the most part; he was never particularly close with any of them.

Kiran fell roughly on the side of things compared to his peers. He had continued onto a (relatively) local college six hours away as an on-campus resident, and three weeks in, he had merely—quit, dropped out, for lack of better word. He cited complication—the college was six hours away, and prices were too astronomical for his tastes. It would have been a strain on him to continue, even with his parent's assistance.

And thus, he, at the age of nineteen, had returned to Watersmeet once more.

Here, he tried his hand at publishing. He had attempted to send his pieces—a variety of watercolor landscapes, oil portraits, and written manuscripts— to various magazines, some specialized and others more informal, and even to newspapers in the case of his more serial writings.

He was ignored more often than not, no rejection letters but simply silence in most cases.

At twenty-one years of age, Kiran was not an acclaimed artist like Van Gogh, a well-known writer like Kafka, or even merely a student working on his degree.

He was simply a man who had accomplished nothing of importance in his short existence.

* * *

For the next four years then, he lived with his parents and worked at the local grocery store. On Mondays to Thursdays, he clocked in at 10 a.m. sharply and left at 5 p.m. Afterwards, he would visit the library and stay for a few hours, until the sun dipped slightly below the horizon and the streetlamps chimed to life. When it came time to leave, Kiran checked out whatever he had not finished, packed them neatly into his messenger bag, and left for home.

On Fridays and Saturdays, he mostly meandered around town or holed up in the library once more. There was no point in visiting any of his old classmates—the ones that still remained in town anyway. Kiran had never been close enough to any of them to simply just "drop by" for a chat; he doubted that they would want to speak to him unless it was necessary.

And on the Sabbath, he painted and wrote—little articles and charming advertisements. Some went to the resident newspaper or to a local establishment, and others were sent to some far-off magazine as a submission (though they were never published), but most—falling below his own standards—were packed into cardboard boxes in the attic or torn to shreds and then tossed into the wastebasket.

He never went to church when his mother invited him either; he had not gone in years, a decade or so perhaps.

It was a monotonous existence in some respects.

Though, Kiran did not particularly mind too much about his work in the grocery store. The owner, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Davis, had hired him after her son had been called out a few years back. She paid him well enough. Often, she slipped him some extra perks—mostly extra fruits, a few snacks, and a carton of milk—in a plastic bag every other Monday, restocking day.

He thought he did well enough, so it was a surprise when she flipped the store's "Open" sign to "Closed" and called him into the backroom to talk.

His turtleneck felt a bit scratchy as he stood under her serious gaze. It was a bit unnerving really, and he was almost tempted to rub the cloth of his store apron between his fingers—a nervous habit. She was normally a very cheerful woman, though that had dulled somewhat since her son's departure. He frequently found her rereading his letters and watching the news on a tiny television in the backroom during the store's off-hours.

She spoke first. "Have you've considered going back to college?"

The hidden meaning of her question was clear.

"I haven't. It's not for me," he answered earnestly," I got a high number though. I doubt they'll call me up in time."

Inwardly, he felt a twinge of disappointment and bitterness at that; he had wanted to be called, to be sent there—for glory and for honor. Though, he did not show it; he knew Mrs. Davis's opinion on that particular matter. In fact, his own opinion had grown increasingly rare among the general populace; the broadcasts and the increasing number of protests had guaranteed that.

He had gotten notices before of course; his age made it unlikely that he would not have had any at this point. But, something always came up: a surgery, an extended hospital stay, and so forth (though never anything that would disqualify him). He always seemed to miss it. Some would consider it enormously lucky, Fortuna's favor, but Kiran did not.

He wanted to go.

Her frown deepened before she sighed. To Kiran, she seemed much older then. The creases around her eyes were apparent.

"We don't know when it'll end or how many will be called up this year." She breathed deeply then. "You need to be careful. Even a high number doesn't mean you won't be sent eventually."

They remained in silence there for a few tense, uncomfortable moments before Mrs. Davis spoke again.

"That's all I wanted to say. You can get back to work now. Just flip the sign on your way out."

He did not scramble out (though he wanted to). He merely walked out, in what he hoped, was an impression of ease, of confidence, or at least normality.

Kiran was fine with confrontation, but he had never been quite good with disappointment.

The rest of his shift went fairly well by his standards, not too many customers but not too little as to leave him idle.

Like any other workday, Kiran still left at five o'clock. His sneakers squeaked with each step he took towards the library and further away from Mrs. Davis.

Located near the town hall and across from the church, it was a relatively large building, three stories high and constructed from sturdy red brick and timber, with glass-paned windows and heavy mahogany double doors that rumbled loudly like a hearty man's laugh whenever they closed. Circling the brass door handles and carved skillfully into the wood were images of grapevines, blooming flora, and running deer.

As a child, Kiran had often run his fingers over the carvings. It had been a preoccupation of his to do so every time he visited. To his best knowledge, it had not held any greater meaning; it was simply a strangeness of childhood, a child's continued fixation and lucky ritual.

Now as an adult, he could not help but stroke one of the deer's antlers—a comforting habit—before placing his hand on the brass that they surrounded.

Clasping the door handle, Kiran gave a pull—digging his heels into the ground and with some effort—the door swung open.

The first floor was mostly empty outside of a few stragglers and the librarian. Most children were still on winter break. Furthermore, the first floor was reserved for historical materials, medical books, and encyclopedias; most children would not have been interested in that. If there were any present, they would have congregated to the second floor, where the children's books were shelved and where the playroom was located.

The librarian was a dainty sort of woman with large framed glasses, mousy brown hair done into a pageboy cut, and a preference for wool cardigans and button-ups. A shiny name tag engraved with "Carol" was pinned to her bosom.

Her voice was mild, the kind that one heard once in passing in the chatter of a crowded subway and then immediately forgot after departing.

Though this time, she did not pay him much attention—neither a greeting nor even a grunt of acknowledgment—when he walked up to the front desk. Instead, she was preoccupied with fiddling with the radio, its soft static somewhat jarring in the library's near-silence.

She had been a much chattier woman before everything had begun.

With his books in hand (having been retrieved from his bag), Kiran rapped his knuckles against the wood and placed them on the desk before moving on. The librarian only continued her fiddling, too intent on finding a decent station, and her mumbling.

That was the sort of atmosphere to be expected lately.

He made his way to the third floor—his hand brushing lightly against the circling burgundy brown guardrail of the spiral staircase—and to the fiction and poetry section.

The third floor was organized similarly to the others. A pair of square tables and a quartet of chairs sat on a cow skin carpet in the corner next to the covered windows. In between the towering oak shelves and extending towards the other end of the room was a runner rug, threadbare from years of being stepped on. Though unlike the first floor, it was devoid of people.

He meandered between the shelves before finally settling on a section near the end. His fingers caressed the spines of the texts as he thumbed each book, pulling them out to glance at the back covers before pushing them back in disinterest or familiarity.

It took him a few minutes—moving between works such as _Editha_ to _Don Quixote_ to _Notes from Underground_—before he noticed a strangely nondescript book in the corner of the bottom shelf. His eyes would have simply skimmed over it if he had not noticed that its neighbor, written by an author whose last name began with "C," was horribly misplaced.

He had frequented this library for years, and in this section in particular, and he had never seen the volume before.

Perhaps it was a new addition?

Kneeling down, Kiran, his curiosity piqued, gave it a cursory glance.

The tome—it could not have been described any other way without understating its appearance and weight— was wedged deeply between the wood of the shelf and its neighbor. The spine was bare of an author and even a title. Rather, lines of white gold ran from the head and dripped downward, over the hubs, towards the tail. Like winter's first snowfall, spots of olive green peeked out from underneath the white.

Taking care not to damage it or its neighbor, Kiran jimmied the volume several times before it dislodged itself. Pressing it to his chest, Kiran made his way to one of the tables, pulled out a chair, and sat down to examine his find.

Like the backbone, the case was barren of both a title and author; a passing look through the first few pages only turned up flyleaf. Though unlike the spine, the cover lacked any sort of discernible feature outside of coloration and texture.

Though, the texture itself seemed particularly unusual to Kiran. While the leather appeared scaly, its actual feel was quite different. It felt smooth, quite unlike the roughness that Kiran had expected.

The scales themselves were relatively large, each about the size of an American dollar coin, and interlaced tightly together. They held a dull shine to them, like stars on a foggy night.

Snakeskin perhaps? Maybe python? Kiran had never seen one before outside of newspapers and television, but he knew that they could grow to monstrous proportions. At the very least, he was fairly certain the binding wasn't taken from a common garter snake.

Furthermore, the tome, despite the luxuriousness that its binding would indicate, was in excellent shape. The craftsmanship suggested a much older age than what the condition would imply.

Additionally, it was quite unlike what he would expect to find in Watersmeet. Most book donations were old, near-forgotten things, often with crinkling yellowing pages or loose binding.

While the town's inhabitants valued their library, most would be unable to afford the materials and tools needed for such bookbinding. Additionally, the skill required would have been substantial.

It was a bit of an oddity.

He contemplated the tome for a few more moments before he finally decided to begin reading. There was not much point in further speculating on its origins or details. Kiran was neither someone who specialized in these sorts of things nor was he an amateur with a passing interest; any further guesswork would simply waste time and be mere facetious conjecture.

Kiran opened the volume and flipped through the pages until he reached one filled with words. To his surprise, the words were readable, both in the sense of linguistics and in clarity. The calligraphy was in standard black ink and exceedingly neat and even. None of the words drifted or staggered.

Kiran would have assumed the words had been written with a typewriter if it weren't for the character of the letters. The Rs held a slight curl to them, looping in on themselves and then outwards, the I's had a slight slant to them and a curling tail, and so forth. Every letter was written in a way that suggested a human hand rather than a machine.

He took a few more moments to marvel at the script before he finally began.

"_In the days of King Cornelius Lowell, a tragedy befell and tore Archanea asunder—violent, vengeful, and swift…"_

The vellum felt smooth under his fingertips as Kiran eagerly flipped the pages. It was easy to immerse himself into the work despite the verbosity of its descriptions. In fact, he was the type of person who preferred verbosity to brevity.

With growing enjoyment, he continued reading—learning about the war that plagued the continent, the various kingdoms and their alliances—until he reached the introduction of the king's son. Here, he stopped and frowned.

"_King Lowell's son—a lad of sixteen winters— was a kind, dutiful man christened with the name..."_

The place where the son's name should have been was smudged, entirely unreadable. While one blemish would have been fine, every other mention of his name on the page seemed to have met the same fate. In each place where his name should have appeared, a dark blemish lay in its place.

For KiranI, it was a bit of a disappointment that he could not learn the prince's name, but it could have been much worse in his opinion. The tome could have been entirely unreadable. And so, he persevered. With each page he read, the prince's name continued to be blurred with what increasingly seemed to be sabotage.

Thus, it came as both a shock and disappointment when King Lowell died, and the prince took reign of the narrative. Kiran had liked the king's character. He had been stern and full of gumption but also fair. The prince wasn't a bad character—Kiran rather admired his softhearted yet determined personality— but the stains were an annoyance to see. They made it harder for him to immerse himself into the story.

It became an even bigger annoyance when Kiran found that the prince was not the only victim of sabotage. As he read further, more names bore the same smudges, though to a lesser extent.

"_The princess, a fair lady by the name of C_⬛_ed_⬛_, welcomed him with open arms."_

At least, the letters of their names still held some legibility.

Kiran was unsure of what pattern the smudges followed. Some names, such as Elice and Frey, were left intact, but others, like C⬛ed⬛ and Ja⬛en, were not.

It was a bit difficult to read once more characters appeared, and the fragmented names became more common, but he eventually became accustomed to it.

In the solitude of the room, Kiran read—followed the prince on his journey across the Samsooth Mountains and pass the bandit encampments with his ever-growing army. It was exciting to read about; it was the sort of tale that Kiran craved to both read and be a part of.

The prince himself was amiable, almost kind to a fault, but resolute as steel and noble as any real, historical king. He was the definition of a Prince Charming at an outward glance. But, his struggles with vengeance and dignity were what fascinated Kiran the most. The fantasy of a virtuous prince—held up as both a lord and a commander—and who was completely untouchable yet entirely too human drew Kiran in.

Despite his current anonymity, the prince was the kind of person who Kiran wanted to be close to.

Kiran only stopped reading when the library's closing bell rang, startling him. With a bit of reluctance, Kiran retrieved a bookmark from his messenger bag and wedged it into the tome. Grabbing it, he made his way back to the first floor and to the circulation desk.

Unlike earlier, the floor was devoid of patrons. Kiran wasn't surprised. It was a bit late; most library clientele often filed out about thirty minutes before the bell. It was a courtesy thing for Mrs. Carol so she would not need to wait for or help patrons pass hours.

Placing the tome on the desk, Kiran turned to the inside of the back cover and to his surprise, there was no borrowing card, not even a card pocket for one.

He opened his mouth to call to Mrs. Carol before abruptly closed his mouth. The woman in question was still fiddling with her radio and mumbling, too distracted to notice Kiran's presence.

While he could call to her, that would mean that the tome would leave his possession because it would need to be filed into a queue for cataloging. It most likely was not a library book at this point (the binding and the lack of a card assured that). Furthermore, if it turned out to be a rare text or anything of that sort, borrowing it would become a major hassle.

Kiran did not want to wait that long to read.

To Kiran, taking the book with him now was no technically stealing if he would return it later. On the incredibly slim chance that the tome was actually library property, he could always say that it was an accident—that it was late and in a sleepy haze, he had pocketed the book unknowingly.

With that thought process in mind, Kiran slipped the book into his bag, made his way to the door, and exited.

On the way to his house, Kiran had to readjust his bag regularly; the tome was heavy. and it strained again the cloth. At times, Kiran feared that his bag's shoulder strap would snap from the added weight of his new acquisition.

The walk was not long, roughly ten minutes if the sidewalks were uncrowded.

Reaching his home's door, Kiran pulled a bronze key from his pants' pocket, slipped It into the keyhole, and turned. The door's lock released with a click, and after re-pocketing his key, Kiran turned the knob.

The house was quiet save for the hum of the ceiling fan. After undoing the knots on his shoes and placing them on the shoe rack, Kiran walked towards his room—the noise of his footsteps muffled on each wooden board and stairstep by his socks.

His door closed with a quiet clunk, and the lock turned even softer. Though, it was more of a force of habit than anything else; Kiran knew his parents would not bother him, not with their current relationship.

Ever since his return from university, Kiran's relationship with his parents had become strained, soured in some respects. He had not wanted to burden his parents—he had said so. But, his parents, in particular his father, had thought otherwise. They had urged him to return to university, and he had refused every time from a sense of obligation.

Eventually, his relationship with them had chilled, loosened from the tautness one expected from family. They all still had breakfast together and lived together, but it was a sort of formality at this point really.

On the days that they did not eat together, Kiran would cook his own meal.

It hurt sometimes, but Kiran did not mind all too much.

After flipping the light switch and taking the book out, he carelessly swung his bag onto a nearby chair and plopped stomach-down on his bed.

He did not have work tomorrow, so he could afford a few less hours of daylight.

Kiran read until the crack of dawn. He had not meant to of course; he had only wanted to read for a few extra hours, perhaps until two or slightly pass. But, the book had been enthralling. Perhaps a bit fairy tale-esque and idealistic but still enthralling, nonetheless.

He had followed the prince to Macedon by this point. It had been roughly around seven hundred pages at this point, give or take; the volume's pages were unnumbered so it was difficult to make an accurate judgement. Though, seven hundred pages did not even seem to dent the book's size; it seemed just as huge as when he found it.

Over the course of his weekend, Kiran read in his room, only coming out to take his meals. Around 6 a.m. on Sabbath night, he finally finished the prince's tale. It was with a bit of reluctance that he did so. The prince had not initially been his favorite—he having preferred the father instead—but his opinion had changed tremendously over the course of the story.

Though, there were still many pages left. He wondered what other stories there were left to tell about the prince and his companions. Perhaps an elaboration on the epilogue? It had left him a bit displeased in how brief it was in comparison to the rest of the tale.

Flipping the next few pages, Kiran was disappointed with what he found—an entirely new story with an unfamiliar cast. So, the book was an anthology of stories?

Though a bit disappointed, Kiran continued reading. At least, the story seemed to take place in the same world as the prince's tale.

"_To the west of Archanea lies Valentia—home of the warring sister nations Rigel and Zofia..."_

At first, it was a bit obnoxious to memorize new names, especially since the smudging seemed just as prevalent and arbitrary as in the last tale. It was also a bit difficult to keep track of the two separate armies with how the point of view seemed to change between the two leads every chapter.

He does not hate or like them less for it. It was interesting to see how they differed, but he does miss the characters from the previous story. Recency bias as it were.

As a result, Kiran felt a thrill when he saw that the Whitewing Sisters had returned.

It took him roughly three days, reading during breaks and right after work until the devil's hour, to finish. It was a bit tiring to keep up that sort of schedule, but Kiran thought it was worth it to keep reading.

It is a bittersweet sort of affair when he noticed that the next story returned to Archanea. He missed the prince of course, but Valentia's leads had grown on him.

Though it seemed that the next story followed a knight rather than the prince.

"_Here—truthfully recorded—is a tale of loyalty, of a forgotten knight and his beloved prince..."_

Kiran found Kris to be somewhat of an odd fellow, strangely steadfast in his devotion. He did not necessarily dislike him, but rather, there seemed to be something more to his loyalty, though it was never outright stated or elaborated on.

Though, the tale seemed to follow the traditional ideals of knighthood, noble birth and all, so Kiran paid it no real further mind.

Like the previous tale, he finished his reading in three days, and it was with the same reluctance that he moved onto the next one and the one thereafter and so forth.

"_In the land of Jugdral, exists thirteen bloodlines—those of the Crusaders and that of Loptous..."_

"_After the death of Q_⬛⬛_n and _⬛_th_⬛_y_⬛_, Prince L_⬛_if hid among the common people..."_

Perhaps, he was just a simple and easily pleased sort, but Kiran found that he enjoyed each tale near-equally. There were surprises of course, such as the incest—though perhaps he should have had expected that; it is a medieval fantasy after all—or characters he disliked, but overall, he found that he could not criticize them entirely.

They were fanciful stories—like the first breath of winter—and those were the ones Kiran enjoyed best.

"_A millennium ago, man lived peacefully with dragonkin until…"_

"_On the plains of Sacae, a woman stood, stout and steadfast…"_

Elibe was a bit odd for Kiran to go through, a bit morbid as well, and that was, in part, due to the ordering. Reading with the knowledge of what would happen to everyone was not an experience that he particularly enjoyed. Instead, it simply made everything feel bittersweet.

In Kiran's opinion, there was not much pleasure in reading about characters that you knew were going to die.

Tragedy that one expected was quite different from one that was not.

The rest of the book took most of January and early February to read, some stories taking longer and others less.

Though, some inspired a noticeable amount of confusion, such as with the tale set in Ylisse.

It was not the premise that caused confusion for Kiran but rather, the tactician. On the tactician, it seemed as if the scribe could not decide on their gender. On some occasions, they were referred to as female and in others as male, a pendulum constantly in flux between Venus and Mars. This further extended to their name. Sometimes they were referred to as R⬛⬛in and other times, they were known as Ref⬛⬛t.

It had been a pain to decipher the text.

The only constant trait that the writer seemed capable of consistently deciding was the length of their hair—short, white, and layered—and their hooded overcoat.

It had become increasingly confusing when the tactician married the priest, and their child appeared. Like the tactician, their genders and names were not set, moving between M⬛⬛gan and M⬛rc—waves ebbing on the shore of night and day and between the moon and sun.

It was like the author had combined two versions, both slightly differing yet with the same core, into one text.

The tale, or rather, the set of three, that came afterward were much less confusing. Though, they were much longer cumulatively and told three different versions of the same story. It was not as difficult to discern between the prince and the princess because they were relegated to their own versions—Nohr for the prince and Hoshido for the princess—rather than blended together.

Though, he wasn't particularly fond of the third version. Simply put, what was the point of loss if it was capable of being undone? What was the point of reading about Nohr's and Hoshido's struggles if everything could be solved in what was obviously the "definite" version?

What was the point of the Nohrian prince finding love if he was simply going to end up with someone else in the third version? Not to mention the affair of the Hoshidan princess's entire existence.

Loss was part of what made a good tale.

It was an unpleasurable finale in Kiran's opinion, lacking in both intrigue and catharsis and full of reworked thoughts.

On an early Sabbath evening in his room, he finishes reading.

But still, there is a sense of emptiness after he finishes, and he finds himself reluctant to return the book. It had been a lovely break from routine, and Kiran finds himself already wanting to reread it once more.

Furthermore, he had visited the library during his month of obsessive reading, and Mrs. Carol had not once asked about it, and he had read it in front of her, six feet away at a table near her desk.

Granted, he had not asked her about it in the first place and thus, she could have been simply unaware of its vanished state. It was a bit of a conundrum. It had been easier to justify taking it when curiosity and impatience drove him, but now, it is much less so.

Thus, Kiran, book tucked safely into his bag, finds himself walking towards the library. It is a bit late, roughly half pass eight, but the library is not a long walk, and it would not close for another half-hour.

It is a short, easy walk, one that he had memorized from years of taking.

Loss in his thoughts, Kiran does not notice the pallid light when it surrounds him.

* * *

Crosspost from my AO3. All chapters finished and will be uploaded to both sites. Work was started on February 3rd, 2019 and finished in early January of 2020. As stated on the AO3 version, POV is 3rd person limited with some emphasis on an unreliable narrator, and later chapters will be rather heavy on literary and historical references if that is not to taste.


	2. John and Mary Die

**AN**: Notes are copied from AO3 version. All chapters are finished and will be posted on a weekly to bi-weekly schedule until work is complete.

When I read, I prefer when the author lets me draw my own conclusions through how the work is written and constructed rather than writing in a straightforward way—telling me what to believe essentially. If you prefer to read in this way, please _**avoid the ending chapter notes**_ for this chapter and upcoming chapters. I will be giving partial information there on why the work is written as it is and some background information on the work's setting.

Chapter title is based on "Happy Endings" by Margaret Atwood, and the previous chapter's is from _Main Street_ by Sinclair Lewis. Both are lovely stories with Atwood's being a very clever short story and meta commentary on the art of storytelling. _Main Street_ is a bit more YMMV—personally, I enjoy it very much—but I believe its values and ideas are still applicable today with the current sociopolitical climate and the ideas of idealism VS cynicism. It is very much applicable with the current generational divide.

* * *

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

— "A Dream," Edgar Allan Poe

The idea of heroism is childhood's daydream, the beguiling mist on a long-winding path.

Kiran has imagined scenarios like this before, of situations where he is transported to other, more fantastical, worlds and where he becomes a hero. Perhaps he unlocks some innate magic hidden within his bloodline or simply learns to take up the sword and shield. Whatever the premise, he is always someone _more_, someone _important_.

What he does not imagine, however, is face-planting into the dusty earth—light fading—and the clang of metal as an axe halts a sword mere inches from his face. If its wielder had been any slower, he would most likely be a ringer of the Hessian, albeit without the horse or the Jack-o'-lantern.

It is a chilling thought yet oddly _exhilarating_.

He does not have much more time to consider more when an object is thrown in front of him and a woman's harried voice resounds in the clearing alongside the sounds of skirmishing.

"Use it!"

It is a bit curt, but Kiran supposes he should not ask for too much considering the woman's current situation, deadlocked after pushing her opponent further away from him, and the surrounding area—fighting abound, silver and gray fluttering as easily as dandelion seeds set adrift.

He grabs it, and his fingers slide onto a familiar yet entirely unfamiliar trigger. It is something that he has seen numerous times on the television and in the hands of the occasional deer hunter passing through town. To his surprise, the grip fits perfectly in his gloved hands.

There is not much else to do but point it towards the woman's current partner and pull. His grip is shaky, not at all like he had imagined or wanted it to be; it is less like Oakley's self-control and more like a child's.

To his (and everyone else's) greater surprise, it is not a bullet that comes out, but a flash of warm light and a man dressed in elegant blues and a silver-strung bow. Without hesitation and with a flourish that spoke to years of practice, he simply nocks an arrow, draws, and releases.

There are no questions asked, but there should not be.

Unlike the man's mannerisms or manner of dress, there is not much elegance in how the arrow lodges itself into the swordsman's skull—between the hard, protective metal of his helmet and into the soft curving, flesh of his cheek. Certainly, there is skill involved, but it lacks the applause—the show—as it were.

Instead, it is surprisingly simplistic, like hooking a fish.

Perhaps Kiran is still simply dazed from his fall, but the next few moments pass in a near blur.

In his moment of weakness, the woman kicks forward, her foot slamming into her opponent's abdomen and knocking him down. There is no pause as she then plants her foot onto his chest, stopping the majority of his panicked flailing. Whether it is from the pain from the arrow or a feeble attempt to escape, he keeps moving, his hands grasping at her boot and his feet kicking at air.

She swings her axe—white clean and glinting—downward in a practiced arc, and it ends as quickly as the deadlock had begun.

Kiran is not close enough to further see any of the grislier details. Furthermore, the man had positioned himself in front of Kiran, blocking the majority of his view. His hands had not stop nocking and releasing since his appearance. Rather, the speed of his actions had gotten quicker. His arrows fly precisely and swiftly, deterring any further advance by enemy soldiers.

Idly, Kiran notes that his quiver is near empty. Perhaps, half a dozen or less left.

Fortunately, the battle does not last much longer. Kiran hears the roar of a horn before the echoes of footsteps and clanging metal—a retreat—resound through the clearing and the surrounding area.

His archer does not stop firing until the last of the stragglers disappear into the trees.

* * *

"Sorry for the rough introduction, but we didn't have much choice in the matter."

The woman's voice, lightly accented, is cheery despite their previous situation.

She is pretty by all accounts, curly red hair tied into a tidy ponytail, reddish brown eyes, and a lovely figure. Her armor is primarily white in coloration with accents of gold and blue and a hint of burgundy on her brown boots.

She continues, "I hope you didn't mind too much, oh Great Hero from another world!" There is a slight emphasis when she pronounces "Hero," overly theatrical, but Kiran does not mind too much.

"Our world is on the brink of ruin, and you are our only hope!" She squints at him a bit after that.

"Though, you don't really seem like the Great Hero." Her sentence is mumbled, as if a bit disappointed by his appearance.

Kiran would have argued with her if he had not agreed. He is not particularly noteworthy when it comes to his appearance. He is a bit below average in height at five feet and four inches tall and of a healthy weight for someone of his stature. His hair is straight, plain dusky black, and trimmed short, a bit below the ears. His eye color is not much either, being an average blue. It could not be described as "deep as the sea" or anything as fanciful (or cliché if one prefers) either. The most one could say was that his eyes were the color of a murky puddle. Consequently, it is unsurprising that he kept his bangs a bit longer than the norm for men, letting the strands fall and enshroud.

He is not much to look at honestly, neither a James Dean nor a Marlon Brando and not unusually repulsive enough to draw eyes.

He is average.

She continues anyway, without pause. She explains the conflict between Embla and Askr, Zenith, and his apparent role in it.

Great Hero and Summoner. There is an excitement that runs through him when he hears her say it.

"—and Breidablik, that's the thing you're holding." She gives a nod to the object in Kiran's lap. "It's a relic we retrieved from Vaskrheim—that's actually part of why we were so shorthanded today. Alfonse and Sharena—you'll meet them later—were in charge of rerouting Emblian troops, though, I guess that didn't work out quite as we planned."

There is a brief mutter then. The most Kiran can make out is "Matthew" and "understaffed."

"Anyways, Breidablik's power, as you saw, is to summon heroes. Like Virion!" She makes a brief wave behind them towards said man. He waves back and returns to retrieving arrows, any that were still salvageable.

She carries on for a bit before stopping.

"Oh! I forgot to introduce myself. My name's Anna, Commander of the Order of Heroes." She extends her hand then, and Kiran gives what he hopes is a firm handshake.

"Kiran."

Satisfied, Anna lets go.

"So, do you think you want to help us?"

It takes all of Kiran's will to not sound overeager when he agrees.

* * *

They end up walking to the rendezvous point, and for the most part, it is a strenuous yet boring walk for Kiran. Their group is on the small side, consisting of Anna, Virion, Kiran, and three Askrian soldiers. Anna takes the lead and the soldiers to the rear, leaving Kiran and Virion towards the middle.

When asked about horses, Anna merely shrugs apologetically.

"Sorry, most of them were spooked or injured, and the closest town is 'bout fifty miles away. It'd be a bit conspicuous if we had horses as well. Furthermore, we wouldn't be able to take this path if we did. Only reason we had them before was 'cause of time constraints."

Kiran's feet ache with each step. He is entirely used to concrete sidewalks and smooth roads and entirely unused to ducking underneath tree branches and watching his step for snakes and biting insects.

As a result, Kiran ends up pestering Virion to pass the time and distract himself.

Kiran asks about Rosanne, Virion's occupation, his archery technique, and so forth. He chatters a bit, speaking too quickly and rambling.

Virion, to his credit, takes it in stride for the most part. Though, he is a bit confused by some questions.

("French? Which country is that? I am from Rosanne.")

It takes them roughly twelve hours, split between two days and semi-frequent stops, to reach the rendezvous point. To Kiran's amazement, it is less of the makeshift meeting point and more of a full-blown military encampment.

Anna, noticing Kiran's expression, explains, "Raigh's platoon was in charge of setting up base in advance. They set everything up while we dealt with the main operation."

She made a motion for them to walk behind her.

"Watch your step. They dropped some caltrops."

As they pass the trenches and palisades, Anna gives a small wave to the entrance guards and receives a nod of acknowledgement in return. When they cross the entrance, she dismisses the soldiers in the group, and they leave after a quick salute.

The interior of the camp is neatly organized. A path ran to the center of the camp and around the commander's tent. Surrounding the center tent are rows of smaller tents. Presumably, they are for the other soldiers. Kiran had some difficulty reading the script that was etched on the banners next to each section. It is not quite English or Gaeilge. At least, it is not in any form recognizable to Kiran.

Nearest to the left wall are the horses, pack mules, and (to Kiran's delight) pterippi. To the far right of the encampment, Kiran could see the faint curl of smoke—a cooking fire most likely. The smell of roasting herbed meat drifted as he passes. It is a mouthwatering aroma even if he could not see what was being cooked.

They make their way towards the commander's tent, passing by cargo trains and various soldiers, both women and men. Most of the soldiers do not pay them much mind, more focused on their own work or revelry. In particular, a woman with auburn hair catches his attention, not because of her appearance but because of her frantic apologies. By the sight of scattered wares—mostly plates, bowls, and utensils—and the scowling man in front of her, he could hazard a conjecture.

Though some take a moment to glance at Breidablik. Kiran could not exactly hide the thing. His bag had not made the trip to Zenith with him, and his pants' pockets were not exactly large enough for what was essentially a fancy handgun.

When they reach the tent, Anna pulls back the flap and motions for them to enter.

The inside of the tent is sparsely decorated in comparison to the rest of the camp. In the far-right corner, there is a weapons rack pressed up to a stack of wooden crates. Across from it are a set of bedrolls. In the center is a large stump with a map laid on top—a makeshift war table.

On the people present, there are only two, a boy and a girl. Kiran could not really consider them anything else. Their faces still held a bit of the roundness of adolescence. To Kiran, they seemed at least a decade younger, give or take a year or two.

It is a bit uncomfortable how young they are in comparison to their apparent duties, but Kiran chalks that up to medieval conventions. Adulthood was held at different standards; they looked to be in their late teens anyway, close to modern adulthood.

The boy presents himself as Alfonse. His way of speaking is a bit stiff, intentionally cold. In contrast, the girl—his sister—is bright, almost unbearably so, and gives her name as Sharena.

Despite their radical differences, they are charming.

Virion introduces himself first with a bow.

It is easy enough to introduce himself, especially after Virion's confident gesture.

What is difficult is listening to the subsequent tactical discussion. Kiran can only understand bits and pieces. Of course, he understands the language by itself—it is still English and he is still American despite his new circumstance—but it is difficult to keep up with the tactical jargon and overall meaning. The most he understands is the parts concerning himself—and his identity and abilities as the Summoner.

It is embarrassing, and he cannot quite bring himself to interrupt. Alongside embarrassment, it would be tedious if they had to halt the conversation every time Kiran could not understand the purpose of a particular maneuver or recap of so-and-so—which was quite frequent.

Kiran is a reader, not a seasoned tactician. Though, it seems that the position of Great Hero required one to be as such.

Thus, it comes as a relief when he feels a tap on his shoulder. It is an even greater relief when Virion whispers in his ear, summarizes and explains the conversation in a way that he easily understands.

The human causalities of the last battle—the one related to Kiran's summoning—are relatively small. Rather, the most serious of the losses were the horses—winged or otherwise. They had underestimated the number of archers deployed. Furthermore, the weather had not been on their side. What had been forecasted as a blistering hot day had instead been mild. Thus, the ground had remained muddy from the recent rainfall.

Slipping and sinking were not fun activities for anyone, but especially for the horses.

Comparatively fragile leg bone structures to other animals meant a fall could mean the end of service and a decommission.

The horses had been armored of course, but that did not decrease their size (or the size of their rider) at all. They are still large targets, and there was only so much barding they could supply for a horse before it became inefficient. Additionally, the barding (and the riders) had only increased their weight, slowing the animals down further.

On mundane occasions, a loss or two of seconds would not mean much, but a battlefield is a rather different place than a noble's garden.

However, Embla had not gotten off lightly either. Their cavalry had suffered equally, but equal eye-for-eye outcomes were not exactly satisfactory. They were preferred to total losses of course, but a victory was obviously much preferred, especially in a long-running conflict such as theirs.

It did not help that Embla's troops are making in-roads in Askr, still just inches into the border and surrounding area, but it is still a cause for concern.

Lack of sufficient funding, as Anna complains. They have the support of the crown of course, but the refusal to increase taxation and war production—the lack of full commitment—is a problem.

"I understand King Gustav's reasoning, but we need his full support. I don't want to burden Askr's people either, but Princess Veronica has started contracting Heroes!"

There is a bit of back and forth then between Anna and Alfonse then, with the occasional chime-in from Sharena—which Virion explains eloquently. To Kiran's continuing surprise, King Gustav is the sibling pair's father.

There is a bit of heat in their conversation before it settles, and Anna speaks again.

"We can discuss this again later. Arguing isn't going to solve our problems. Additionally, Kiran?"

He jerks a bit in surprise at the mention of his name. He had not exactly been prime conversation material outside his initial introduction and explanation of his identity.

"You—and Virion—must be tired, right? You aren't exactly used to the everything yet." Kiran blushes a bit at that. She is not wrong. The reason why it had taken them so long to reach camp was because of his own physical inadequacies—stamina was not one of his finer points.

"Sharena"—she gives a nod to the girl—"can lead you and Virion to your tent. I hope you don't mind sharing for now; space is a bit scarce, and we can situate you better once we return to our main base of operations."

"I'll send someone to call you both once dinner is ready."

He follows Sharena out and walks behind her.

She is quite a chatty girl, and it is a bit tiring. Kiran does not dislike chattiness; it is simply something that he is unused to. He is much more comfortable in the quiet companionship of words. It is not unpleasant to hear Sharena's chatter mingled in with the noise of camp life, but still, Kiran appreciates Virion humoring her. It deflects most of her questions from him.

After a few minutes of walking, they reach their tent.

"Here we are! It's not the biggest tent we have, but it's serviceable, and the bedrolls are clean." Sharena is a bit sheepish at that.

"We'll be staying here for a few more days—roughly three. We're waiting on intel from Matthew—he's another Hero—before moving on," she explains. She continues a bit more, mostly basic information about Raigh and Matthew, before she bids them farewell.

"Feel free to find me if you need anything."

With that, she leaves.

* * *

Dinner passes by smoothly. For Kiran, it is a cut of cooked venison, wedged between two thin slices of bread, and a cup of watered-down wine. The wine is not much to speak of—incomparable to the modern version and even to Communion wine—but it is acceptable. At the very least, it is not swill.

Afterwards, Anna meets him on the way back to tent and passes him a folded bundle of cloth.

("It's a cloak, not the best one, but it's useable. We can get you something better once we get back to Askr Castle. For now, it should keep out the cold.")

The bedrolls, true to Sharena's words, are only serviceable. The tent itself was nowhere near as large as the commander's tent, but it is still much better than his previous experience with sleeping in the outdoors. It keeps the wind out at least.

But what Kiran enjoys the most is the bath, or rather, wash. In the morning, he, alongside Virion, make their way to the nearby river. Bathing mostly took place in pairs or small groups. It is easier to keep track of people that way.

He bathes first with Virion keeping watch with his bow. They are quite close to camp—enough that a shout would grab someone's attention—and the patrols are active, but it is more of an extra safety precaution than anything else.

It is a relief to remove his scratchy, dirty clothes and submerge himself in the clear water. He would have to hand-wash them later, but it is not too much of a bother. He has a clean set of clothes to change into; Anna had provided him a set before they had left.

He does not pay much mind to Virion's presence until the other man speaks.

"Summoner, it seems that you are not well-versed in tactics."

It is not something he is keen to admit to verbally, despite the proof of the matter. There exists a sense of pride for him, a natural sort that all men have even in matters that they lack experience in. But, it is not like he can lie to Virion; the man had translated everything earlier for him after all. Furthermore, a lie, if let to pass, would mean much more here than elsewhere.

It would be foolish for a variety of reasons.

Thus, he reluctantly nods, hoping that the water hides his flush.

He cannot see Virion from his current position, but he can imagine the other man sighing.

"That does us no good. I cannot translate for you every time there is a meeting."

That burns Kiran even more, but it is the truth. There is a moment of silence, only accompanied by the sounds of running water and chittering wildlife, before Virion continues.

"But perhaps, you would be willing to take some lessons from me? During your spare time? I have some understanding of the art."

It is a good offer, and Virion's expertise was at least good enough to translate Anna and the siblings' verbiage. That at least, that was better than his own expertise.

Perhaps he was a bit slow to reply, but Virion speaks again.

"You wouldn't have to follow my orders or anything of that sort. You are the Summoner after all, no? I would simply teach you some terms and basic tactics."

After a few more moments, Kiran agrees.

In this particular case, there is not much harm in learning.

* * *

The next two days pass by in a near-blur. Kiran wakes up, helps around camp (mostly minor things such as laundry and cooking), and listens in on the tactical meetings. At night, Virion tutors him in tactics.

He is getting somewhat better at it; Virion no longer has to translate every literal detail.

He cannot quite help out with the heavier duties, such as lifting crates or hunting, but he tries his best in what he can. It is still strenuous work all the same though. Kiran's body is not quite used to waking up at daybreak and working until dusk. He often goes to bed sore.

On the fifth day near noon, Matthew arrives with news, though it is not quite as good as they would like.

There is an air of seriousness in the commander's tent, and it is stifling to Kiran.

He listens to the best of his ability, but what catches his attention is the mention of Macedon. It is a familiar word, but he is not quite sure why.

It is vexing, the unsureness. Though, he is sure that he will remember the reason why sooner or later.

That is how these things—memories—normally go anyway.

* * *

Oh.

So that was the reason.

It is when they arrive in the World of Mystery that Kiran remembers. Specifically, it is at the mention of the Whitewings.

He jerks in his saddle and almost falls when Alfonse mentions them offhand, his actions attracting more than a few strange looks from his traveling companions.

It is a relatively small group—consisting of Anna, Sharena, Alfonse, Virion, and himself. They had left Raigh and Matthew behind at the camp—standby in case things went from okay to worse to abysmal.

(Kiran thinks it is a bit strange that he has not seen Raigh in-person yet, but Sharena assures him that that his sparsity normal. He was often the one leading the patrols. If he was not on a patrol, he would often hole himself up in his quarters—practicing his magecraft. She is often the one who drags him to social meetups and to dinnertime.)

On the soldiers themselves, there are not enough able horses or pterippi to field a platoon. Furthermore, the Whitewings are formidable aerial fighters; the Askrian fliers are not mediocre, but they are nowhere on par with a group recognized and immortalized in legend for their ability in the skies.

In this scenario, fielding an average flier is to send them to their deaths.

Instead, they are dependent on Virion's archery. Most pterippi and wyverns are notoriously weak to arrows. Their wings are one of the few reliable areas to aim at, most being unarmored due to a need for flexibility in their aerial maneuvers and more desirable than the eyes due to the size of the appendages and the numerous blood vessels running underneath the thin skin.

It is normally not the rider that most archers aimed at, it is the pterippus or wyvern. A crippled wing or an arrow through the beast's chest often meant a fall from great heights for the less disciplined. Whether the rider is jostled off or the pterippus plummets, it did not concern the average archer.

The results were often the same.

Whether the riders break their necks in the fall or their bodies shatter under the weight of their fallen mounts, it did not quite matter to the anyone but the crows.

One offered a much more substantial feast than the other.

Well, that is not entirely accurate. It often matters to the infantrymen at least where the beast fell. It is not uncommon for them to fall and pin an unfortunate soldier. Of course, Virion assures them that he is an excellent archer, capable of nonlethally pinning flying beasts to the earth like their more grounded siblings.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure how that works considering the height.

Would the fall not be just as devastating?

* * *

Though, he still does not quite know what to think. Whitewings were a fictional group in a story, not a real military group.

But in all honesty, it is a bit hypocritical of him to think that. Was traveling to a different world not a thing of fantasy? Why couldn't he have traveled to a world where the stories he read were real?

Did the Pevensies not travel to another world through a wardrobe? And Alice through the rabbit hole?

There are precedents, the idea of them anyway.

* * *

The princess is frightening.

Not Minerva. She is quite fierce in her own calm way, but she is not intentionally malevolent. Furthermore, he _knows _her. Or rather, he knows her fictional counterpart, but that is similar enough he thinks. He has seen her at her worst and best. He has also seen her with one of Virion's arrows pinned through her abdomen, enough to puncture skin but not deep enough to destroy the organs. True to Virion's word, it is nonfatal but hazardous enough to force a landing.

Luckily enough, it is easily patched up by her sister's magic.

(He is still thrilled at the thought of knowing her name, _all_ of their names. He finally has _real names_ and _real faces_ to put to the idea of them.)

But rather, Princess Veronica is frightening.

He does not like how cold her eyes are and how _cruelly decisive_ she is.

She is an unpredictable element and that does settle well with him.

Meeting Marth is a wonderful kind of surreal, a dream within a dream of the fantasy of reality.

Seeing the prince, he just wants to call to him, to speak to him, to hear him recount his journey in his own voice. Even with what he knows of him from the tales, he is a larger-than-life figure for Kiran.

He is the epitome of the classical prince and of noble ideals, Galahad given form from the ink. The prince just _radiates_ an earnest charisma. At this point, Kiran somewhat understands the knight's fascination with his liege, somewhat though not entirely.

He is reluctant to leave the man's company once their business is done.

* * *

After their business in the World of Mystery, they make their way back towards Askr Castle.

It is a rough trip and Kiran's still not quite used to horseback, but he manages. Though, he is not fond of the bumpy path that Anna has chosen to take. On his belt hoop, Breidablik jostles against his hip again when his horse hits a bump. It is an uncomfortable sensation accentuated by his inexperience.

After three days of travel, they arrive at their destination at daybreak.

The town is bustling despite, or perhaps because of, the earliness of the day.

Warbling their crooning tune, the birds flew, vibrant crescents spread wide in flight, to and fro from roost to roost, roof to roof, and from clothesline to clothesline. Their melodies intermingle with clopping of the carriage horses, their legs moving powerfully and steadily like the wheels of a locomotive.

Interspersed within the song of the town was the chattering of children and the boasts of merchants, one eager for lighthearted revelry and the other for their livelihood. The children—in their juvenile mirth—run to and fro from stall to stall and house to house in their games, oblivious to the shouts of irritated merchants and concerned parents.

In them was the liveliness of youth; it is a carefree joy specific to childhood and lost when one reached the cusp of adulthood. It is the price of maturity. For adults, it is an ignorant joy that most were only capable of touching in the fleeting realms of Mnemosyne, and few mimic with the grace of the Muses.

While the children run, the merchants peddle their wares, their stalls overflowing with early spring's heralds and the fruits and greens stacked high like an offering to nature's forgotten queen. Completing the symphony is the haggling of customers—elderly men, youthful women, round-faced children—and the clinking of coin changing hands.

Like the spectators of a play, a cluster of knights stand watch nearby, content in peace's silence and their white armor glinting in morning's kiss.

It is a simple life in some respects, but that is the reflection of humanity's hymn.

In these moments, a component of life's greater scheme, is the sincerity lost by awareness.

There is a sense of the sublime and the beautiful, and it permeates him.

As they pass by, some of the children wave to them. By his side, Sharena, on her own horse, waves to them.

Anna leads them through the cobblestone streets, pass flowering trees and flowerbeds and the occasional yipping dog. The smell of baking pastries and rising loaves wafts from the bakeries they pass.

If the town had inspired awe in Kiran, the castle stirs him more so.

Askr Castle is a wonderful place, a real-life Camelot with its adorned battlements and silvery blue-white stone. In spring's whisper, the banners flutter in the wind, waving gently as if to greet its protectors. The towers—outstretched towards the sky as if to caress her lover's pale, decorated face—gleam proudly under the radiance of dawn's chariot and the blessing of earth's bloom.

It is a massive place, larger than what he thinks is possible in his original world.

If God, Odin, Zeus, or any other number of divine figures exist, he imagines that this was what their kingdom would look like.

Sharena, seeing his awe, laughs goodheartedly.

"It's big, isn't it? You should see the castle in the capital! There, I often had to write letters to my mother even though we lived in the same castle! We rarely got the chance to speak in-person."

There is a hint of sadness at that.

* * *

Kiran is given a few days of respite, a period of "settling in" as it were.

He spends most of it lost in the winding corridors with the paintings and the servants as his source of directions. Of course, he receives guidance from the Askrians, but it is not like Alfonse or Sharena could follow at every hour of the day. They had their own duties to attend to. This further extended to Anna.

Outside of mealtime and the initial miniature tour of the castle, he has not seen her, busy as she was. Though, he is introduced to the Order's carrier bird and apparent mascot, Feh.

Even with the tour, it is still difficult to navigate Askr Castle. Kiran could not imagine what it was like growing up in such a place. How did Alfonse and Sharena not lose their sense of direction?

He is getting better at it though, he thinks. He has memorized the location of a few paintings and decorative doodads, landmarks, though not enough yet to where he could go from destination to destination without trouble.

For example, there is a bust of a dragon that sits nearby the door of his bedroom and a portrait of an ocean sunset three corridors down and to the left of where his room is situated. Kiran always knows that he is on the right track to the dining area when he sees it.

He is still roughly ten minutes late to breakfast everyday though. It has gotten to the point where he thinks Anna has sent more servants to work around his room and the surrounding corridors. It is a bit embarrassing, but he appreciates the fact that she had not sent an escort yet. That would have been a blow to his pride.

Alongside the tour, Kiran had received a replacement overcoat. It is a clean white with golden accents with a hood. It is plain in comparison to what Alfonse or Sharena wear, less gold ornamentation and plating, but the cloth itself was where Askrian tailoring shone. It is a soft, flexible material, and Kiran could not quite discern what animal it came from. But, the stitching is impeccable, almost unnoticeable, and the weight itself is feather-light.

It fits him perfectly, and complements the black of his turtleneck. For Breidablik, he had received a leather holster and an accompanying belt to hook it on.

("Think of it as your uniform"—Anna winks at that—"it's much more durable than the cloak I gave you before, and everyone in Askr recognizes the markings of the Order of Heroes. You won't have any problems in our territory with it on.")

After a week or so, Anna takes him to the summoning altar.

* * *

It is an hour's ride by horseback to reach the altar's clearing.

There is not much he can do but follow Anna and the siblings though. A few soldiers had followed as well alongside a few extra horses.

There, they dismount at the base of the hill. A stone path curled around the hill, leading to the summit. The stone path itself was grey in coloration and surprisingly well-kept despite its apparent age; a few trees grew from the hill and beside the stones. Kiran could not really notice any cracks or imperfections in the rock. It was wholly smooth.

There is a bounce in Sharena's step as she bounds up the stone stairs first. Alfonse had elected to stay with the horses which left Anna and Kiran to walk by themselves behind Sharena.

As they ascend, Anna elaborates on the purpose and process of summoning.

"There are multiple altars scattered across Zenith, and Breidablik connects to all of them, according to the old texts anyway."

There's a brief pause as Anna pushes an outlying branch out of the way.

"This one here—and its twin another hour away—are the closest ones to Askr Castle. Though in the text I mentioned they're also considered the 'weakest' ones." She makes a pair of air quotes at that.

"Weakest?" Kiran can't help but wonder at that. How could they defend Askr if the Heroes they summoned were weaker? Would it not be better to travel to a farther altar if it meant stronger Heroes?

Anna, quick to interpret Kiran's inherent meaning, answers, "I don't mean in terms of terms of Heroes' strength, but in _how many_ are connected to these stones. Not every hero can be summoned at the same altar, and some are actually more attuned to particular ones."

That is a bit of a bother. It already took them an hour to arrive at this one, and he still isn't used to riding on a horse. If they had to travel to a particular stone every time they needed a certain hero, it would be a problem.

She notices his look and elaborates further.

"It's all tied to the astrological positions of the sun, the moon, stars, that sort of thing. While some Heroes are more likely to appear at a particular altar, that doesn't mean that they're the _only_ ones that can show up. Depending on the time, others can appear can as well. You can ask Alfonse about it if you're interested in the specifics. He's the one responsible for researching it."

They reach the summit then. There, Sharena is bouncing impatiently on her heels.

Anna steps forward first and motions for him to step in front of the altar.

Centered on the platform, the altar itself was a stone monument, carved with snaking lines that wound around a circular opening.

There is a shuffle behind him before Anna hands him a small burlap sack. Inside were a number of spheres (roughly twenty if Kiran had to guess), each one shining like a miniature rainbow. They are pretty things, each perhaps the size of a quail's egg.

"They're called—"

Kiran couldn't understand the word that Anna says. He could not pronounce it either really. His tongue cannot form the syllables necessary without faltering.

"—but you can just call them orbs if you prefer." There is a hint of amusement in Anna's eyes at his butchering attempt at pronunciation. He understands that sort of amusement of course; he often feels the same way about Gaeilge. It is simply a perk of multilingualism, the ability to tease beginners.

"They're what you need to summon. Use Breidablik, and it should take you from there." She steps back then and goes to stand next to Sharena.

Kiran's hands shakes slightly as he pulls Breidablik from its holster, and his heartbeat quickens. It had been simple enough when he had still been distracted by the castle's glamour and the excitement of warfare, but now—when it came to it and the relic was in hand—it was hard to separate himself from the reality of it.

What if it didn't work? What if summoning Virion had been a fluke? What would happen to him then? He certainly didn't have a place to go home to, and Askr's hospitality most likely depended on his ability to summon.

It had been one thing to have one success—that was called fate's joke—but it is another entirely to replicate an event.

He lingers there in hesitation, and he can feel Anna's expectations and Sharena's impatience—and that is familiar even if the faces are different. There is not much he can do but try really, pull the trigger and expect failure.

So, he does.

To his surprise (and immense relief), the orbs soar from the bag and form a five-point formation, some orbs merging into the others. The iridescent sheen pulses, colors swirling in a frenzy, before they eventually change to a more monochrome shade. Two, the ones forming the lower points, settle first into a ruby red—the color of ripe strawberries. The next to settle are the middle spheres, both turning emerald green, like a freshly cut sprig. Finally, the topmost one settles into a light grey. It reminds him of a rabbit's early winter coat, when the grey has only begun to morph into white.

He waits for a few moments, unsure of what to do. Turning to Anna and Sharena isn't much help. Anna only gives him a thumbs up, and Sharena looks close to bursting with anticipation.

With not much else to do, he decides to touch one. He feels like Hermann betting on the Ace, but he eventually decides to choose the bottom right red. At his touch, the orb flies into the monument's opening and settles before fading in a burst of smoke and light.

The smoke covers most of the area and obscures Kiran's vision. He doesn't really know if it worked until a voice resounds throughout the clearing.

"My name is Corrin, raised in Nohr but born in Hoshido. I have answered your call, and to you, I devote my Yato blade and my dragon power!"

From the smoke emerges a young man. His white hair is cut unevenly and covers a pair of pointed ears, but rather than appearing sloppy, it accentuates his youthful, heart-shaped face. His armor is a mixture of white and black.

Kiran cannot exactly place him by appearance alone, but it is the introduction that helps identify him as the prince from the last set of stories. Though, he is still unsure if the man is the version from Valla or the one who sided entirely with Nohr. While the Nohr-sided prince had been described as wearing primarily black armor, the prince of Valla's armor hadn't been described at all. It would not have been entirely sound reasoning to assume this Corrin's loyalty merely based on his fashion choices.

Though that would have to wait for later as Sharena, after Corrin's introduction concludes, springs to him and pull him back towards where she had previously stood. By her chatter, she would not be letting him leave anytime soon.

Anna does not stop her either; she merely makes a shooing motion towards Kiran, urging him to continue.

There is less hesitation this time. While there still was a chance of failure, a second success had bolstered his confidence somewhat.

He decides to tap on the leftmost green orb this time. Giving it a tap, it follows the same pattern as its sibling and flies toward the altar. Though this time, there is no puff of smoke. Rather, there is only a burst of light before he hears a curt voice speak.

The man only introduces himself as Raven before folding his arms over his chest, apparently done with their conversation. It is a bit rude honestly, but Kiran supposes some people were simply just like that.

Much like before, Sharena rushes him off. There is a sense of irritableness that rolls off of him at her actions, but she seems oblivious to it as she pulls him to the side.

He goes clockwise then, and to his befuddlement, the next two orbs—the gray and green—only yield two crystalline shards, each the color of their respective spheres and the size of a human palm.

Though this time, it is Anna—rather than Sharena—who goes to pick them up.

She turns them over in her hand, before passing them to Kiran.

There is a brief flash of images in his mind. The grey yields a hazy image of Virion and the green of Raven.

"They're—"

Yet again, there's a word he can't really understand or pronounce.

"—just call them extra copies or shards." Anna's understanding of his linguistic difficulties is helpful if a bit embarrassing. Was he really that obvious?

"From the text I read, when Breidablik connects to the same Hero after your initial summon, it only takes a fragment of them, their power really, rather than transporting them entirely to Zenith."

She makes a motion for him to hand back the crystals, and he does. She bends and picks up the discarded sack before placing the crystals into it and tightening the drawstrings.

"You can use these to strengthen the Heroes they represent. Though I'm not entirely sure how. Ingested maybe?" She shrugs at that.

"Alfonse is still looking into it." She makes her way back to her previous spot.

Though it is the last orb that brings him near-unparalleled glee.

There is the same puff of smoke as with Corrin, though it is a different swordsman that makes an appearance.

Left hand clutching at his cape, it is the prince once again. Though judging by his introduction, he does not remember their previous encounter. Kiran is a bit disappointed at that, the fact that he had not been able to make an impression on him, but it is no big matter.

He has time to make an acquaintance.

* * *

**AN**: Chapter 1, 2, and partially the upcoming 3 is more setup than anything else—both for Kiran and for Zenith—for the upcoming chapters. I do think this is a slow-moving fic considering the full length, but it is styled after the classics and Bildungsromans in a sense with the length, focus, and such.

On the previous chapter, if it is not apparent, Kiran is not someone who comes from the modern time though it isn't a completely fictitious time period either as the mentions of the draft and Nixon imply. He doesn't exist in a random state either, though the town (in its name) is fictional to the best of my knowledge. The geography is also based on an actual state's.

On this chapter, Askr's fort is actually based on Roman encampments and their layout if one needs a reference to look at.

As a side note, my word choice is very much intentional, no matter how strange at times (such as with "pallid light" from last chapter's ending). I am someone who prefers the Faulkner style of word choice and coined+clipped word usage. It is not chosen simply for thesaurus-related reasons but because it offers something to what I want to achieve in relation to the themes, Kiran's character, and so forth. In a sense, I wrote it with the capability of being analyzed in a literary perspective if one wished to. There are hundreds of examples of allusions, symbolism, and so forth hidden in the whole work.


	3. Alice Among the Fairies

**AN**: Notes are transcribed nearly as such from AO3.

Title is taken from one of the original proposed titles for Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_.  
I will be posting the rest of the chapters quickly as my schedule is too busy to go at a slower pace; I want to clear this from my schedule as soon as possible. As a result, editing will also be more cursory than anything else. I have obligations and cannot spend hours reorganizing text unfortunately.

* * *

Because he puts the compromising chart

Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid;

Because he counts the price that you have paid

For innocence, and counts it from the start,

You loathe him. But he sees the human heart

Of God meanwhile, and in His hand was weighed

Your squeamish and emasculate crusade

Against the grim dominion of his art.

— "Zola," Edwin Arlington Robinson

When they make it back to the castle at sunset, it is Sharena who situates the new Heroes. It is a bit disappointing that he cannot talk to the princes, but it would not do to hurry them he thinks. They are still royalty no matter how modest or kind they seemed. Furthermore, answering Breidablik's call and traveling between worlds had to be tiring.

(He would have included Raven as well if the man had not made it abundantly clear that he disliked all them. Kiran does not really understand why he would answer Breidablik then, but he guesses, everyone had their own secrets.)

He knows them deeply of course; he has followed their tales from start to end and in Corrin's case, every possibility. But, appearances must be kept.

It had been easier to interact with Virion, despite his noble status, because, to Kiran, he embodied the caricature of a nobleman, snobbish and boastful. He is not a fairy tale prince or exceedingly (or naively) kind. It was harder to know when to stop if one couldn't predict where another's fuse ended.

* * *

He still meets with Virion every night, an hour or two before dinner—depending on the day's schedule—for lessons on tactics. It is a bit of a long walk; Virion's room is on another floor entirely, an upper area. But, Kiran does not mind too much. Virion is good company despite his snobbishness.

Though, the duke does not like it all too much when Kiran pries into his previous life before his summon. Of course, Kiran knows which character he is—the mention of Rosanne is enough to identify him—but it is different to hear the story told from the mouth of the source rather than through the view of someone else.

Furthermore, he has gotten somewhat better at tactics he thinks. Virion's pulled out the chessboard for study anyway. He's also stopped sighing as much at Kiran's blunders. For Kiran, that meant progress.

Likewise, he has gotten better at navigating the castle as well, less lost and less dependent on directions from servants. It makes it easier to find Heroes—whether in their quarters or in their wanderings.

Corrin's amiable, more so than even what Kiran expects from reading his stories. He often finds him in the process (or attempt) of helping a servant. It is common to find him mingling with the servants on laundry day or in the kitchens before mealtime.

When asked, Corrin only explains, "I like to learn how to do things by myself. I was sheltered for most of my life, and my retainers often did things for me."

He lingers a bit on the word "retainers," as if remembering something, before he continues.

"Perhaps, you'll summon one of them some day. I certainly think they qualify for the status of Hero."

Corrin is a nice change of pace from his attempts at socializing with Raven.

In contrast, Raven is overly sullen and withdrawn at times, more focused on his training than with mingling.

Though, he is one of the easier Heroes to find. This is especially noticeable when compared to the likes of Matthew, who always seemed to be on some reconnaissance mission.

Kiran often finds him in the courtyard, whaling on a training dummy with his axe.

Their conversations do not amount to more than idle talk really.

Kiran would ask a question. In return, Raven grunts and swings his axe. Afterwards, Kiran has to interpret that grunt. It's not all that useful really when it comes to his more complicated questions.

Though, Raven is more talkative in the rare moments that Kiran catches him in the hallways.

("Is this touching stuff some sort of amusement?" Kiran is a bit sheepish, but Raven uttering more than two or so words was a victory. Even if he almost loses his finger. Raven wasn't really someone that one should sneak up on and poke. Especially considering the fact that the man took his axe everywhere.)

And on Marth, the prince is delightful. He's an eloquent speaker and open though not as easily found alone as the other Heroes. He is often with Anna and Alfonse, discussing some matter relating to Askr or to his own history and so forth. Though Kiran deeply enjoys the moments when he's present during these discussions; he likes hearing the prince discuss his battles.

It is a nice kind of daily pace.

* * *

In the moments that he does get alone with Marth, he asks him about his knights and his kingdom.

He does not ask about Kris of course; it would be strange if he knew of him if the man was supposed to be a forgotten knight. Instead, he merely picks at pieces, little details that the prince drops. He asks for elaboration; it is a natural trait for Kiran, curiosity and eagerness.

Marth, for all of his good qualities, answers as best as he can.

Those conversations, those are some of the ones that Kiran enjoys best.

* * *

Over the course of a month, Anna takes him to various altars around Askr, and he summons.

Though, he is still not quite attuned to horseback riding; the skin on his inner calves chafe red and bruise dark. He supposes it was a consequence of his previous activities in his in his past world and his bookish habits; his most strenuous job had been stacking canned fruit and aluminum cans. His body is soft, unused to strain, and roughly a month and a half of work was not enough to fix that.

But, he does relish the joy he gets from aiding villages and the occasional traveler—always on the way to another altar—and summoning. It is in the gratitude and in the meeting of new individuals.

The people he meets in these occasions are a varied lot, in both skills and personality. He summons archers such as Takumi and Gordin to lancers such as Azura and Ephraim. On character, his meetings varied from the kindhearted sort, such as Julia and Lucina, to the more bloodthirsty if potentially malevolent with Karel and Henry.

(If he had not read their tales, he most likely would not have kept them around. He had figured out how to dismiss Heroes some time ago when his summoning capacity had hit limit. Though alongside that, he had also figured out how to expand its capacities. It was a balancing act of sorts since expanding required resources, augmenting Breidablik with an orb.)

It is a varied sort of deal. However, they are not always peaceful sorts of engagements. There is conflict and confusion at time between the people he summons. But that is something that comes with summoning between time and space, he supposes.

No one quite belongs.

* * *

He enjoys meeting new Heroes almost as much as Sharena does.

He knows them intimately from his stories. He has seen their pain, their glory, and their victory or fall. But to him, they had been mostly faceless, figments of his imagination and whatever face and voice he could gift to them.

It is another entirely to see them in person. Even those that he hadn't cared for in print had been lovely, charming in their mannerisms in some way or another, whether in appearance or action. That was the difference between word and flesh.

His last altar is to the north of Askr Castle, halfway up a mountain. It is a rough trek for him, especially the stone stairs. Unlike his first summoning session, the trek up the stairway was twice the length and much steeper, slippier as well from the recent rainfall.

His first summoning session yields only duplicates and so does the second ring. It is obnoxious, but he has been summoning quite frequently. Perhaps they would have to wait until next month when the astrological positions moved? He is not quite sure (Alfonse's explanation hadn't helped either, too many technical terms), but Anna hands him another set of orbs and holds up three fingers.

Three more rings then before they stop.

Like his previous sessions, the next one yields nothing substantial, just extra copies.

It is in his next session, on the second to last sphere, that his breath is taken away.

It is a woman that appears from the smoke, fair hair unrestrained and long. Garbed in serene blue and shrouded in whites, she has the appearance of one of Heaven's messengers taken mortal—though no less ethereal—form. Carrying a sturdy hardwood staff and by the appearance of her modest robes, she looked to be a cleric. Clipped to her cream-colored sash is a light chestnut tinted charm. A religious charm perhaps? It would have melded well with the religious image.

Her face is round, heart-shaped, and framed picture-pretty by straight blond hair. Complementing her appearance is a set of gentle yet determined blue eyes.

She's beautiful, rivaling Helen and worthy of Venus. If he had been Paris, he would have gifted her the golden apple without hesitation, without consideration for any competitor.

Though Kiran's illusion is quickly broken once the woman, no _man_, speaks.

Despite the lowness, the softness of tone and speech, it is a man's voice. It's sweet, melodious, but no less a man's, one of Adam's progeny rather than Eve's.

"My name is Lucius. I can tend to your wounded. So I beg you—please put me to work immediately."

It's a sincere request and Kiran's heart aches for a reason he cannot understand. But he doesn't have to ponder it long before Sharena starts her routine.

She was always eager to make friends, and in this moment, he's grateful to her.

The rest of his summoning session goes fairly well. He summons Jaffar (he can imagine Nino's joy at that), Priscilla, and Ninian.

It is a decent selection considering how many orbs Anna had brought up the mountain.

When they begin the descent downward, Kiran buries his thoughts.

He avoids Lucius as much as he can when they return to Askr Castle.

* * *

He takes to memorizing Lucius's general routine. On most mornings, Lucius holes himself up in the infirmary. In the afternoon after lunch, he takes to the hallways or to the courtyard with Raven. And at night, he returns to the infirmary until the late hours.

It is a simple routine to remember.

He doesn't have a problem with the man nor with his appearance; he just didn't want to associate with him more than was necessary. He is not malicious. He didn't call people poof, fairy, or anything of that sort like his parents did when they made the news last year.

(Though could it really be called last year if he was in a different world? Time most likely flowed differently in Zenith.)

But, Raven seems to be in a better mood with Lucius and Priscilla around. He was still perpetually cranky, but at least, he spoke more than once a day now—longer sentences as well.

The castle is bustling as well with all of the new additions. It is happier as well.

(Jakob's taken to following Corrin as well, and the prince seems more vibrant, content. Though, he doesn't really seem to enjoy Jakob's attempt at commandeering his domestic duties.)

He sees Matthew around more often too, most like the result of summoning more spies and infiltrators.

It is a happy bunch for the most part.

* * *

Though like many of the best laid plans, it doesn't exactly go how Kiran wants.

He ends up bumping into Lucius in the corridors quite frequently. It never ends in anything violent or loud. He doesn't even get annoyed at their frequent encounters. He's not that sort of man. More often than not, they only exchange awkward apologies.

It is perplexing, both the relative frequency of their meetings and Lucius's temperament.

It is a relief of course, his lack of anger, but it speaks too much of his character.

And that, that is what bothers Kiran. It makes him want to speak to him more, lessen their distance and increase their familiarity.

Kindness and even temperaments often dissolved disquiet and discomfort.

Furthermore, Anna often sends him to the infirmary to pick up materials. He does not really understand what she would need from the place. As much as he can see, she is never injured, but her mind did work in strange ways. Sometimes, it was better not to question her and simply go along with her plans.

He does the same for Alfonse as well. He doesn't really understand why he didn't just have a healer stand watch when the soldiers drilled. They certainly had plenty.

But he does as he's asked. He likes the feeling of helping.

Whenever he arrives at the infirmary, Lucius is there, and it always takes a few minutes to gather Anna's list of goods or fulfill Alfonse's request. As a result, they often have time to talk. No matter who collected Anna's or Alfonse's items, it's always a conversation between them.

It is strange, though Kiran cannot truthfully say he dislikes it.

If Elise or Sakura or whomever goes to gather the materials, Lucius, from his workstation, takes the time to talk to him—his hands still working at whatever healing concoction he had started before Kiran entered all the while. If Lucius is the one to fulfill the request, he talks to him over the shuffling of ingredients as he packs them into containers.

He replies to Lucius of course. It would be awkward otherwise, with how frequently he visited.

He doesn't really understand why Lucius talks to him so frequently; Kiran doesn't think he's missed a day since he's started coming in. At the very least, Lucius always manages a greeting at the minimum.

Their conversations had started out as idle small talk—pleasantries on the weather, the antics of other Heroes, the sort of topics one would find in the break room between co-workers—before moving onto more serious topics after a few weeks of idle chatter.

That was the sort of person Kiran happened to be. He prodded. They end up exchanging words various subjects—nature, art, music, and so forth. It's easy to talk to Lucius.

Despite his gentle appearance, he was quick, sharp-witted in a way similar to a blade. Kiran finds himself laughing at Lucius's light jests. They're not malicious, but rather jests done in good will or simply puns or observations.

It is a dry sense of humor, and he appreciates that. It's not bawdy or high-strung chattery.

In those moments, he also notices how much taller Lucius is than him, when the other man stands to his full height to reach into the cabinets. He isn't absurdly tall, but there's a noticeable difference—about half a head's worth—between them. It's an uncomfortable detail to notice.

Kiran does not seek him out outside of their infirmary conversations or their hallway collisions.

* * *

"You should get over it."

Robin's voice shakes him from his book. After he had summoned Robin, the other tactician had taken it upon himself to tutor him in strategy. And so, his time with Virion had changed to time with Robin.

(Of course, Anna's insistence had played a part in it.)

Virion is a good tutor of course, but Robin is a legendary tactician.

There is quite a difference between a tactician who won frequently at a tremendous cost and one that consistently won without loss. Naturally, he misses Virion's tutelage; the man is his first summoned Hero, and their time together had become routine. Of course, Kiran still visits Virion regularly, but he couldn't do it every day. He didn't have enough time for that, not with how many new Heroes had appeared.

Kiran doesn't really understand what Robin means so the man elaborates.

He leans his head languidly onto the palm of his hand—elbow pressed into the oak table—as speaks, "That hang-up you have with Lucius. You're not exactly good at hiding it as you think. You need to get over it. Soon."

He looks a bit like a lazy cat with how he's slumping. Kiran honestly hadn't expected Robin—the tactician of Ylisse's tale—to act like this when he had summoned him; it's quite a difference from what he has read. He's not a bad man of course; he's still kindhearted at times, and overly observant of everyone's needs, but it's a disparity between what he knows and what he doesn't.

"I don't know what you mean." Denial is a good start.

"Yeah you do" —he taps the fingers of his other hand, the one not pressed against his cheek, against the table—"You keep avoiding him unless it's necessary. You don't even deploy him in the same units that you're in. It's poor taste really."

His tapping is obnoxious and overly loud in the silence of the room.

"Don't deny it anymore either. I'm fairly good at reading people, tactician skill and all." Kiran definitely sees the blasé amusement in the other tactician's eyes. It makes him a bit angry for a moment, how much Robin assumes and the casual bluntness of his remarks.

His rebuttal is a bit harsher than he intends.

"I still deploy him, and I don't intentionally lead him into bad situations."

Robin frowns deeply at that.

"Yeah, but you don't take _care_ of him"—Robin emphasizes that last part—"You don't even try to get to know him. For that matter, you don't try to _understand_ anyone here. It's like you're dependent on an approximate idea of what everyone's like, afraid to offend but too afraid to connect."

That observation stings, and Kiran doesn't think it's quiet accurate.

"I take care of everyone." He fists are balled underneath the table; his book having been set page down to the side earlier. He's not staring at Robin but rather at his hands and the flooring.

"Nah." It's overly casual and certain, and it infuriates him off. Apparently keen observational skills meant one was entitled to dismiss every rebuke as simply and arrogantly as possible.

"Corrin takes care of people. Kamui takes care of people. _Marth_ takes care of people."

Kiran flinches at that, and he hopes Robin doesn't notice. Though knowing the other man, he most likely did.

"You do carry out a lot of errands and research 'course. Don't get me wrong, but you don't do anything deeper than that. It's very superficial, ya know? You don't try to provide anything _more _for people, emotional comfort, friendship, that sort of thing. 'Course I don't expect you to know every single soldier's needs, but even just _knowing_ _your important players_ is acceptable."

His tapping continues, and Kiran is tempted to tell him to stop. Though before he does, Robin continues.

"Knowing and understanding people—whether they're your friend or not—is a key ability of a tactician. You garner their loyalty, and they garner yours. It's a two-way street. Without that, your army will fall at critical junctions."

His tapping stops then, and Kiran looks up. Robin's eyes are narrowed then, overly somber compared to his earlier playful tone.

"'sides, I don't like how you look at Lucius. It reminds me too much of how someone close to me was treated. It's very unpleasant to see. Change it."

He gives a wink then, his playful tone returning.

"Anyways, that's all I wanted to say. Think on it."

He gives a quick rap on the table with his knuckles.

"Now, get back to your reading. We still have another half hour before dinner."

* * *

He does not take Robin's advice immediately.

Instead, he stews over it, gloomy and irritated. It's not intentional; he'd rather forget about it all together, but that is a hard task when you have to see the man every day. It is quite harder as well when Robin doesn't even seem to acknowledge that the conversation took place. Kiran doesn't bring it up of course, but neither does Robin. Instead, he continues as he has always had—playful, lightly sardonic, and witty.

It's infuriating.

(He doesn't understand why Reflet—another of their recent additions—is so different from her counterpart. She is thoughtful and kind of course, but in an almost "prim" sort of way, less casual than her counterpart as well. Though, that is more from observation than anything else; Kiran does not talk to her much because of her company. He does not quite understand how she could frequent Henry's company as much as she does. She even enjoyed his jokes. Even with his knowledge of him, Henry is grotesque, nice but horrid to be around with.)

He has tried to "hint" to Anna their differences as well and his wish to study under a different tactician. Ideally, Reflet. But, Anna doesn't notice, or she does and ignores him anyway.

(He had summoned Soren recently, but he was the prickly, criticizing sort. The only reason he was cooperating was because of Ike. Kiran did not think they would be able to get along. On Katarina, she was too strange at times, insistent on his relation to some knight.)

He tries to hide it of course, keeps his hood up more and lets the white shroud him. He doesn't think he is being too obvious. He often keeps his hood up anyway, but now he pulls it forward further, letting the cloth obscure his eyes. To most, it would most likely seem like a new fashion trend rather than anything more.

But of course, someone catches on anyway.

As these things often go, it is Lucius who does, during one of their infirmary conversations.

"Hmm, what troubles you?"

It's one of the few days where Lucius had only offered a greeting—his current work requiring intensive concentration. His words come as a surprise; they had been silent for the most part—Lucius working and Kiran content with just waiting and looking around the room.

Kiran notices that Lucius's hands have stilled—his fingers are long and slender, pianist fingers. It's an odd contrast to the rest of his hands—lightly scarred with fading, jagged lines.

"Nothing." It comes off ruder than he intends, but that was a fault of one-word answers. They're quick and easy, but difficult to convey meaning with.

"Are you sure?" Lucius pushes this time, not content with his answer. It's a bit uncharacteristic of him; Kiran is more used to him simply letting matters pass, non-confrontational on simpler issues.

It's unusual, and Kiran almost tells him before he stops himself. Kiran wonders where Elise is. Usually, she was one of the quicker ones when it came to Anna's lists.

"Yes." Another one-word answer unfortunately. He's not quite good at this despite what his background would suggest; his vocabulary fails him.

Lucius frowns then.

"As you say. But if ever your mind is troubled, please speak with me."

His eyes are sincere, and it hurts to look. Instead, Kiran looks at the wall behind him.

Thankfully, the awkwardness does not last long before Elise bounds back with a filled basket.

Unaware of their previous conversation, she's still as cheerful as ever as she hands Kiran the basket.

* * *

The second person to notice is unsurprisingly or not, Virion. It's over a midday tea.

"What ails you, Summoner?"

Was he really that obvious? Kiran stops stirring his tea—jasmine, Virion's choice for the day. It's fairly cold, having cooled some time ago during Kiran's incessant stirring.

"Nothing"—the teaspoon is still held between his thumb and forefinger—"just tired."

"Are you sure?" Virion's accent is charming on most days, suitable for the man's demeanor and personality. But today, it's just obnoxious.

"Usually, you quite enjoy our chats, but today, why, the unhappiness just radiates off you!" He takes a moment to sip his tea, the picture of refinement.

"Furthermore, your tea is untouched outside of your swirling—"he frowns then—"you're normally quite fond of jasmine."

Kiran doesn't reply, and so Virion continues to prod.

"Does this have something to do with Robin? I know the man. He can be quite blunt at times, but he means well. Or perhaps, it is Corrin? He was quite upset after our visit to the World of Bir—"

Virion continues with his questioning, going through a list of heroes and events and a variety of inane questions. It's deafening, and Kiran cannot quite take it, not with the stress of his current preoccupations and the weight of Askr's and Embla's conflict.

"I said I'm fine!" The table shakes at Kiran's sudden outburst. He feels the tea seep into the sleeves of his overcoat and he feels something drip down his palm—blood.

He's stunned. He hadn't expected that reaction from himself.

"That certainly doesn't look fine." Virion's surprisingly unperturbed despite Kiran's outburst and the shattered state of Kiran's teacup. The saucer underneath is fractured as well, the pink camellia pattern cracked down the center.

Virion places his teacup onto the soaked wood (his saucer had fallen during the outburst). There's not much use in worrying about tea rings or spills if the table is soaked alongside the broken pastries.

He wordlessly stands before taking Kiran's hand and leading him to the bed. He pats a spot, and Kiran sits. He doesn't really want to antagonize Virion further. He's already made a mess of his room and of Virion's (fifth) favorite tea set.

Wordlessly, Virion rummages through the drawers of his bedside dresser, the clinking of objects and closing wood the only sounds in the room.

Sunlight streams into the room from the windows and yet, it feels more oppressive than anything else. It is not comforting.

Finally, he pulls out a small box and opens it—a first aid kit.

"Hold out your hand, palm up." Virion, hand outstretched, wiggles his fingers a bit. His other hand holds a pair of tiny, metal tweezers.

Kiran complies, and he is surprised to see bits of white embedded in the skin. He had not felt anything.

It was an unfortunate day to not wear his gloves, nonetheless.

Perhaps it was Virion's status as his first Hero, the guilt of his outburst (and Robin's words and Lucius's kindness), a deluge of stress, or even just a combination of issues, but Kiran talks then, as Virion picks the shards out of his bleeding flesh.

He does not even know if he's making sense in his rambling, but he talks.

He talks about Robin's accusations, his worries about Veronica and Embla, Anna and Askr's expectations, he even talks about his own world—the war, university, his parents. It's everything.

Kiran doesn't even know if Virion is listening. He cannot bear it if he isn't.

It continues even as all the shards in his hand are pulled out, a disinfectant is applied, and Virion securely binds the cleaned wound with medical gauze.

Kiran only pauses when Virion motions for his other hand before continuing again.

It's the same sort of motions again. He—wincing—talks as Virion pries the pale pink pieces of porcelain out. He talks even as Virion finishes wrapping his other hand, and only stops when his voice is hoarse from overuse.

Virion doesn't interrupt him once.

It's only a few moments after finishing that Virion speaks.

"Do you wish to hear my opinion on everything? I certainly wouldn't hold it against you if you didn't."

Kiran hesitates before nodding affirmatively. Robin's words flash once again in his mind.

"There are many matters that I will not pretend to understand—your previous world is one of them." Kiran flinches at that.

Noticing Kiran's reaction, Virion elaborates, "But, that does not mean I cannot emphasize. If it causes one pain, then it causes pain; it does not matter the source."

There's a sense of relief at that.

"You remind me of my daughter actually." Kiran's a bit surprised to learn of that. He didn't think this Virion was married; he hadn't mentioned it at all. Though, there are many things that Kiran doesn't hear.

"She's somewhat guarded, prickly some would say, and they wouldn't be wrong—"Virion chuckles fondly at that, a personal joke"—but she often means well, even if her methods are not the best suited."

"Furthermore, Robin may have reacted harshly, but please do not hold it against him. It is not his normal conduct. Lucius reminds him of someone—maybe you will summon him one day—and it stoked his emotions. He does not speak to intentionally harm."

"However, he is partially correct in his assessment. In particular, you must treat Lucius better. As fine a Summoner as you are, it is not befitting to hold such a prejudice."

Kiran, hands folded in his lap, doesn't reply. He merely looks at his bandaged hands.

There is a tense silence before Virion speaks again.

"Though, I do wish you hadn't taken your frustrations out on my poor tea set!"

It's somewhat in poor taste and poorly timed, but Kiran cracks a small smile, relieved at the silence breaking.

"Nonetheless, we have certainly gone over time, and you have duties to attend to, yes? I can tidy up."

Virion's right, and Kiran almost leaves before Robin's words once again, pass through his mind.

"No, I can stay. It was my fault. I can clean it."

There's a flash of surprise on Virion's face, but it is not there for long before it changes to a small smile.

"Very well, but let me help you."

Kiran ends up swabbing up the tea while Virion sweeps. It's a quick affair with two people, though the table would most likely need to be replaced.

They do not talk much as they work, and it is only as Kiran is leaving that Kiran remembers to speak.

"Thank you."

He hopes Virion hears him.

They meet again for tea the following week, and the new table is made of mahogany.

* * *

It starts off small, Kiran ends up spending more time with various Heroes and works his way from there. He listens to Odin's bluster, learns to brew tea with Jakob, and goes along with Nowi's games.

He learns that Cordelia and Olivia tutor Nino in literacy, about Saizo's and Gaius's strange rivalry (if it could be called that. It amounted to nothing more than their disagreement over sweets.), and many other quirks and relationships.

He learns about Tiki the younger's penchant for scarves—the more colorful, the more beloved—and her daily outings into town with Lucina and Selena.

There are many things that he learns about the people that live in the castle.

And of course, he spends more time with Lucius outside of his required visitations. He ends up waking up earlier (earlier than his 7 a.m. constant anyway) to visit the man in the infirmary. There's surprise at first of course, but it's easily replaced by quiet delight. Lucius doesn't comment on his bandaged hands or slightly stained sleeves.

(The servants had washed the majority of the tea out, though not all. Anna had offered to commission another overcoat, but Kiran had refused.)

It becomes a common sight to see Lucius and Kiran in the infirmary in the early morning, before the sun shone.

(At first, Kiran thought that Lucius slept in the infirmary. He has never seen him return to his room. Granted, he had not exactly been attentive to those sorts of thing. It is only when Lucius casually mentions the view from his bedroom's window that Kiran realizes that his belief's incorrectness. Though, Kiran never quite arrives before Lucius. Somehow, the man, excluding the occasional patient, was always the first one in the room on almost any given day.)

It is still uncomfortable for Kiran of course. He is not exactly entirely comfortable with Lucius's presence—years of social conditioning didn't go away in a day no matter how heartfelt a conversation is. But, baby steps and all.

(He is _not_ going to ponder why he does. That went to areas that he was even further uncomfortable with.)

At least, Lucius does not seem to mind much if Kiran keeps a slightly farther distance than was normal or if he leans away from Lucius's touch. Or perhaps, he simply does not notice or chooses to ignore it to keep the peace. Either way, Kiran appreciates it.

Kiran ends up helping him with his herbalism endeavors. It's nothing major of course; he merely fetches any item that he requests from the cabinets. He's not always correct in what he retrieves, but he appreciates that Lucius never seemed to mock him if he fetched the wrong herb or the wrong instrument.

(He is fairly fond of Lucius's smile. It's friendly and honest, unguarded. It is a pretty smile in Kiran's opinion.)

They end up talking in these moments as Lucius works and Kiran gathers. Their topics are just as varied as during Kiran's errand runs.

It is easy to talk to him, even if they didn't agree on every subject.

It is both comforting and startling.

Weeks later, they have their next major operation.

Lucius, at Robin's suggestion, ends up in Kiran's unit for the next world they visit. Kiran is the Order's official tactician of course, but Robin's (and by extension, the other tacticians') suggestions carried substantial weight. They were legendary tacticians after all.

If Kiran had a knack for tactics, he had certainly traded his ability for horseback riding for it. Months later and he still wasn't used to it. Even with riding breeches and tall boots, the activity still rubbed the skin on his inner calves raw. Furthermore, it seemed as if most horses disliked him on sight. At most, they only tolerated him for short periods of time.

Thus, Anna had assigned him Árvakr; she is a pretty mare, primarily white with brown speckling around her eyes and ears and a silvery mane. A real pedigree if Kiran had to guess. But, her best traits are her tolerance and calmness; she didn't attempt to buck or kick him. They weren't a perfect pair; Árvakr could only tolerate so much, but she's much better than some of the other horses that Kiran had ridden.

They travel to the World of Awakening, and it ends up being one of the longer campaigns.

That is in part, due to the enemy tactician. Whether due to fate's sense of irony or coincidence, the opposing tactician is Robin rather than Reflet. And a result, it is arguably worse.

(They were identical when it came to their prowess in strategy, but their slight personality differences made for a difference in how they approached things.)

Thus, Kiran's woken up in the middle of the by the sound of a horn—Anna's signal for an incoming or in-progress ambush—and the blaze of the palisades and tents.

There is not much he can do but grab his coat and Breidablik and rush outside of his tent as it begins to smoke. The camp isn't faring much better; it's not total disorder, but it's not ideal either.

The majority of the horses are loose, trampling tents and unlucky soldiers alike. He can see Lyn in the distance, engaging with another swordsman—most likely this world's Lon'qu by the color of his hair and garb. Through the fog and smoke that blotted the sky, he can see blurry shapes darting and meeting and separating —pterippi, Askrian and Heroes, engaged with the Emblians.

So that was how they had gotten pass the patrols and caltrops. He could piece it together because of his tutoring sessions with Robin.

It is a risky, almost suicidal maneuver, but Robin had used the fog to advance his pterippus riders, most of whom probably carried a set of incendiary arrows. Those types of arrows weren't useful when it came to piercing armor, but they were excellent for causing discord among enemy ranks.

Furthermore, the Emblian fliers could not see below them, but neither could the Askrian-aligned archers see above. They had to depend entirely on their own fliers to engage.

It was a maneuver based entirely on Robin's understanding of his world's terrain and human behavior—the ideal locations for barracks, tents, cargo trains, everything.

He cannot help them of course; he is not a fighter. Even with a dagger, he most likely could not defend himself in any meaningful capacity. His interference would be only met with capture or perhaps death.

(It is a bit insulting actually, and it burns a bit at his pride, but there is not much he can do about it at the moment.)

Thus, he covers his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat and runs. He darts between both clashing Heroes and soldiers. Akin to a rabbit in a forest fire, he is rush of frantic white in sooty black and harrowing reds and browns—no magnificent hero but simply civilian. Around him, the world splinters, small explosions of glass and shrapnel and noxious liquid as the fliers overhead drop their cargo inbetween bouts.

Robin is a strange man, too different from his storybook incarnate.

To his relief and a testament to his luck, the first Hero he meets is a friendly one—it is Lucius. He meets him near the medical tents.

At the sight of Kiran, Lucius, with his mouth covered by his cloak and with his staff in hand, quickly runs over.

There is not much he can do but essentially huddle behind Lucius—following him to be more exact—and wait for the siege to end. He cannot issue commands with the smoke—whether through vocal or visual means.

So, he follows.

* * *

Lucius is an adept fighter to Kiran's surprise. Of course, he had assumed some proficiency with spells and magic; most healers had some form of offensive magic. But he had not expected to see Lucius swinging his staff like a bludgeon as well.

It is quite a sight in all honesty.

Though Lucius's goal is not to fight but rather, to guide Kiran to safety. Combat isn't his main priority.

It still does not stop him from cracking an Emblian soldier's skull open when he tries to impale Kiran with a lance though.

* * *

The ambush ends roughly ten minutes later with an Emblian retreat. Though, repairs and assessments take much longer than that.

Despite the fires and enemy soldiers rampaging through the camp, there's not too many causalities. Instead, it's primarily their supplies and lodgings that take a hit. Their fliers were relatively well-off as well; that was the benefit of having multiple legendary fliers.

(Kiran assumes that that was due to the contract. Despite Robin's assault, he doubts that the man wants to serve Princess Veronica. He most likely hadn't used the full extent of his abilities.)

He sees Anna frown as she assesses the damage.

"Most of our current supplies are unsalvageable, and I'd doubt any of the nearby villages would want to help. We don't exactly look "local" and pillaging isn't really our style. Furthermore, it's unfortunate, but we'll have to move camp as well."

She calls over one of the less injured fliers then—Catria—and issues a command to check up on few of the other stations—the supply lines as it were. They didn't have many in the World of Awakening nor were they spread out—they weren't invaders after all—but they were still a necessary part of the campaign.

From his position on one of the few remaining benches, Kiran sees Catria nod before she goes to find her pterippus. Catria couldn't visit them all in one night, but she didn't have to. As long as she could visit one, the others could start sending their own messengers and supplies.

"Are you alright?"

Kiran hears Lucius's voice behind him, and he turns to face him.

"Yes, thank you."

Maybe it's the leftover adrenaline, the lack of sleep (ambushes often caused that), or simply Lucius's actions in the skirmish, but Kiran's next statement is a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing.

"You were amazing."

The astonishment is obvious, but it quickly changes to happiness.

"Thank you. Though I do wish I had one of my light tomes. I have always been more proficient with light magic than with a stave."

Lucius smiles widely at his compliment, and his statement is as close to boasting as the priest could get.

At Lucius's expression, Kiran feels his heart clench.

(He still doesn't want to analyze why.)

Though it's soon gone when he turns to watch the soldiers carry the dead out of camp for burial.

Noticing Kiran's gaze, he asks, "Loathsome, isn't it? Such a loss of life."

Kiran nods at that.

"Fighting, war, it is a monstrous, purposeless event is it not? It brings nothing but pain."

"I think war has its purposes. There are some things that cannot be solved without it."

He didn't think it was too controversial of an opinion, but apparently it is. Lucius's frown is there once again.

"Truly?"

There's not much else to say so he nods. Lucius looks ready to respond once again, when someone calls out to him—one of the other healers.

Thus, Lucius bids him a temporary goodbye and goes to tend to the wounded.

And so, that conversations ends up unfinished, at least for the moment.

* * *

The rest of the campaign is a maze of both failures and victories, but they eventually succeed in liberating the Ylissian Heroes from Veronica's grasp. More often than not, Kiran ended up near Lucius during each battle. It is strange how things seemed to work out.

Returning to Askr Castle, he almost wants to punch Robin. Of course, the Robin he had met in the World of Awakening hadn't been _their _Robin, but it was more of the concept than anything else. It had been a terrible month filled with guerrilla warfare and various snares.

Kiran has also eaten more dried meat and hardtack in a month than he would like to in a lifetime.

But he doesn't. Instead he merely takes to sulking during their sessions.

Not that Robin minds much, he merely laughs and pats him on the back.

"At least you won against me, right? You're still here after all."

It is a relatively good consolation prize, but that didn't stop his sulking entirely.

* * *

It is during the morning a week after that things begin to change. Kiran's not sure why he asked, but Lucius is happy enough to oblige. He is fairly certain that Lucius didn't mind anyway.

(He knows why of course. He's useless in battle, ones where the din roared above what he could scream and the smoke covered the signal flags. But rather, he doesn't understand why he would ask Lucius.)

He asks Lucius to teach him salve-making.

His first few attempts are abysmal: too much beeswax, too little meadowsweet, and so forth. He overheats, he overfills, he confuses the recipes.

He doesn't understand how Lucius could memorize them all.

But, Lucius is a patient teacher. He waits for Kiran, doesn't scold or become annoyed with him. Instead, he simply gives instructions on how to improve on the next attempt.

(Kiran's a bit jealous on how easily Lucius made it look. He knew when to adjust the flame, when to take the pan off of the heat; he pours the mixture into the containers evenly—perfectly even. He rarely even needed to measure—able to gauge by sight and weight.)

He continues speaking with Lucius, and he ends up visiting the man much more often, outside of his morning hours and throughout the day. He even begins assigning him to the same unit as himself; Lucius becomes a constant common sight in Kiran's main lineup.

He becomes something akin to a comfort for Kiran, someone to look forward to.

(Though if asked, Kiran would say that it was an admiration—one shared between colleagues—rather than anything more. It's easier in that sense. It doesn't burn like perdition.)

* * *

Though, their viewpoints on war still conflicted.

There are certain matters that Kiran stands firm on, and war is one of them.

* * *

"But you agree that war is a necessity?"

Kiran's question, despite its softness, comes as shrill as a blade in evening's dusk, like opening up fresh stitches, and he watches as Lucius's hands still from their current work before the man turns his chair to face him.

There is a calmness etched onto his face, and Kiran notes how the infirmary's glow sharpen his eyes from a stormless sea to aching abyss.

(He almost wishes that Lucius would scream at him, argue and argue until he's hoarse, articulate his anger or annoyance with actions, something—anything that he's used to—anything but the calmness that he now portrays, as if he's seen enough men with the same notions and fancies. He doesn't want to understand the faint tiredness that seems engraved into the other man's being.)

The candles melt, orange-hued beeswax dripping onto dark wrought iron, and the flames flicker lightly, each sway like a grandfather clock's hour hand, once, twice, and thrice before Lucius answers.

"I believe that war, that needless death, is a final resort. It is not an inevitability, but rather, a consequence of men's failings and the deterioration of language and diplomacy."

Kiran almost fidgets under the intensity of Lucius's gaze, but he doesn't. He cannot, not without losing his resolve.

"Then, what if it's for liberty?" Kiran stares at the gray stone behind Lucius's head and the dim orange that dances along the walls.

"For people who cannot escape oppression without help? Should we just leave them to die then? Leave their leaders in control?"

Lucius is inscrutable.

"As human beings, we are obligated to support and aid one another, but how can one person or group decide another nation's fate when most cannot fairly regulate their own ki—"

Kiran interrupts, "But you just s—"

Lucius raises a hand, and Kiran stops.

"War is not a finality. It is not an end to suffering nor is it a bandage for injustice. It is an act that brings great pain to everyone involved, and it scars both the land and its people."

That isn't quite the answer that Kiran expects, and as the man finishes, Kiran cannot help but raise his voice slightly.

"So you think people should just tolerate it, the atrocities? Let others step on them just because you don't want more unneeded" — Kiran makes a pair of air quotes around that, and it's a bit immature honestly, but he doesn't quite care at this point — "death? What about the future then? Should their children wait patiently for their turn at it?"

Kiran continues for a while, his voice steadily rising as his mood turns to a fever pitch, until it is audible to anyone who might pass by the door.

Behind Lucius, the glass flasks —coconut oil and dried calendula and lavender petals are among the few items Kiran can identify—shake slightly from the noise.

In a way, it is fortunate that they're the only two there. The recent skirmishes with Embla had been light on both injuries and causalities for Askr. Consequently, many of the other healers had retired early from their duties for the evening.

Or, they had been dismissed early under the pretense of a "reward" for good work, but Kiran would never admit to that. Individuals like Sakura, whose characters held an inclination towards kindness and self-sacrifice, would have most likely insisted to stay up, to help create more medicinal poultices and the like, if it had been a simple dismissal with no pretense.

Perhaps, they would help to mend the staffs as well, rebalancing their magics and tidying up cracks and scratches in the polished wood, or to hem up tears in various garments, whatever was damaged in their previous clashes. Most healers never seemed to stop, their duties extending far beyond what Kiran was used to from his world. Rather than duties being separated by role and purpose, everyone seemed required to contribute as much as possible.

It went unsaid as well, but some were still children, and all too much younger him. Even if they were considered adults in Askr, and even if they saw more actual combat than him, they needed more rest in his opinion.

(He had attempted to dismiss Lucius too, but the man was stubborn. After a while, Kiran had given up on attempting to control his actions in matters involving altruism and curatives. He would have simply just snuck the herbs and bottles and oils into his quarters one way or another and worked there. It was easier to just let the other work here as he pleased, less hassle and less "missing" ingredients for Anna to complain about as well.)

He rambles on and loses himself a bit. He's not sure if he's even making any sort of sense to Lucius, but he continues his outburst— high on both a perceived righteousness and a sense of rightness — until he eventually stops, slightly breathless yet still blazing brightly.

Lucius is patient throughout it, and as Kiran finishes, he speaks again.

"That is not the meaning I meant to convey. Rather, I believe that one should help on an individual basis, or on a smaller scale."

Lucius pauses for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, and continues, "Further, how can one trust that any intervening country has only the other's best interests in heart and not their own? I do not believe that men are inherently evil — it's quite the opposite actually — but a nation's subjects should have the ability to decide their own fate, whether that leads to revolution or otherwise."

Kiran cannot help but argue still, "If they're fighting for freedom, shouldn't someone intervene then? You cannot honestly believe that both sides are equal? Freedom is an inherent right for everyone."

"How do you decide which is just then? If one faction were to act, and act horrendously in the name of self-determination, is it justified, simply because of a call to freedom? What if freedom is pretense for a bid to power, and misplaced charisma guides revolutionaries to execute a fair lord and overturn a favorable reign? Or if it results in the deaths of many and the gain of few?"

Kiran opens his mouth, ready to counter once more, before Lucius interrupts, unperturbed.

"Kiran."

He's a bit surprised at the use of his name, at its sudden usage, and at the strange feeling of hearing Lucius use his name rather than the usual "Tactician" or "Summoner" he's come to expect from everyone here.

It's not at all unpleasant to hear his name said in Lucius's soft, agreeable voice and to listen to how he emphasizes the second syllable, almost breathy, but it's strangely stirring. It's this oddness that he finds discomforting, but it disappears as quickly as it came before he can analyze it in any sufficient capacity.

"You have good intentions, and a good heart"—Lucius stands from his chair then—"But you need to understand other people more before you decide on absolutes."

Not waiting for a response, he turns back to his worktable and scrutinizes the contents laid out before finally settling on a modest wooden container the size of someone's palm and hickory in coloring. Turning to face Kiran once more, he places the box, not unkindly or forcibly, into the other's hand.

"Here, you're still unused to riding on horseback, yes? This balm will help with the soreness. Rub a small dollop onto the affected areas once every night, before you retire and after you've washed."

He pats Kiran's hand once before gently closing his fingers around the container, as if urging him to keep it. His eyes are softer, less intense than before. They are a light blue in hue, like morning mist after spring's first rainstorm.

At that thought, there's that sense of oddness again, and Kiran feels like he should recoil at the other man's touch, but he doesn't. Instead, he merely tightens his grasp on the gift.

Lucius continues with his explanation, unaware of Kiran's restlessness. Kiran only half-listens to him, only catching a word or sentence here and there, of how the balm contained willow bark or something of that sort. He's more acutely aware of how soft the other man's hands are on his own, and how the sleeves of Lucius's robes brush lightly against his knuckles as he talks.

It's nice in a way he cannot explain, and to his alarm, he finds that he doesn't really want to pull away.

Kiran only snaps to attention again when Lucius pats his hand once more.

"Did you understand everything?"

Kiran nods, more of a reflex than anything else, and he can feel the satisfaction radiate off of Lucius.

"Good. I apologize if it seems like I'm circumventing our discussion, but I had been meaning to give you this since our last conversation."

He gives a small nod towards the balm before continuing.

"Furthermore, it is getting late as well, and you still have that meeting with Robin and Soren tomorrow, right? You need to rest. If you wish to further discuss this matter, we can continue it on a later day, when we are both more refreshed."

Lucius lets go of his hand then and goes back to his chair, still intent on continuing his work. Kiran almost wants to urge him to stop, to clean up his work space and just continue on another date and with more daylight. But, he stops himself, not out of indignation at Lucius's previous comment or anything of that sort but rather, out of a sense of hesitation.

(Righteousness tended to have that sort of effect; It tended to make one near-impervious to criticism and near-certain in one's own beliefs and the fallacy of another's.)

Instead, he merely tightens his grip on the balm and leaves, shutting the infirmary's door quietly behind him as he does.

Moreover, Lucius is a stubborn man in many aspects, and he doubts that his words would persuade him. They are not particularly close despite their strangely frequent conversations.

Kiran's footsteps are soft as he, balm still clutched tightly in hand, makes his way back towards his sleeping quarters.

* * *

**AN**: For me, much of the style for the early chapters is rather different from what I normally prefer and use, but this is a rather experimental piece for me-made both for fun and for me to see what I enjoy in writing. I don't particularly enjoy the quick pace of everything, but it works with what I intend to imply with Kiran's mental state.

He is a rather narrow-minded and focused-even delusional if one wished to go that far to describe him-sort, and preconceptions+appearances+assumptions are a rather large theme of this work for Kiran and everyone around him. For him, focusing in on what interests him means that everything else falls to the wayside. In my opinion, the work is more of an insight into Kiran's mind; however, some of the more "interesting" bits of Zenith are given or implied in dialogue or actions. Not everything he perceives is an objective insight nor is everything said necessarily "correct."

Additionally, some of the later ones are massive (10k+ words) and so is the total word count hence why I cannot edit everything with my current obligations. I also want to get to the more "interesting" (for me anyway) parts. As a side note, many of the poems chosen, while reflective of the chapter, are also chosen because of their poets's lives. Dickinson often dealt with the themes of liberation, societal expectation, and life itself. With the chosen poets, they deal with some aspect that I find relevant. Each poem and its corresponding poet offers some insight into this work.


	4. Hunger Artist

**AN**: Title is taken from Franz Kafka's "Hunger Artist." Kafka's a particularly delightful writer and one of my favorites. He's someone I would recommend if you would like to start with writing from the Modernism era or an almost blunt yet vibrant style of writing.

* * *

A thousand mountains cut short the flight of birds,

All trace extinguished of the ten thousand tracks of man.

A solitary boat, an old man in a rush cape and a straw hat

Fishes alone on the cold river in the snow.

— "River Snow," Liu Zongyuan

Kiran does not use the balm on the first night or the night thereafter. Perhaps it is petty, but it sits on his desk—next to his unread reports and an ink pot. He is not particularly angry at Lucius—the protesters had similar ideas—more annoyed than anything else. Why could he not understand?

He ends up avoiding Lucius for a few days. He is keenly aware of how petty it is, but he needs the time to cool off. Of course, that's just what he tells himself.

Though, the balm continues to sit on his desk. It both mocks and guilts him. Thus, on the fourth day, he ends up using taking the balm with him to the baths. Despite its size, it feels heavy in his hands.

When he unscrews the top—after his bath and drying off—the cream is light green in color.

It is cool on the redness of his skin.

* * *

He ends up going to the infirmary first thing in the morning. To his surprise, Raigh is there alongside Lucius—both deep in a conversation. Though at the sight of him, Raigh stops and scowls, most likely annoyed at Kiran's intrusion into their conversation.

There isn't time for Kiran to speak or to apologize for his interruption before Raigh bids Lucius a brisk farewell. Taking care not to bump into Kiran on the way out, the swish of cloth and the clunk of a closing door are the only remnants of his exit.

By nature, Kiran is curious.

"Why was Raigh here? He normally doesn't visit this part of the castle."

He does not understand Raigh's vitality in general really. It seemed like the youth never got sick or even mildly injured in battle—nothing that would require a visit to the healers. The luck of children perhaps? Or perhaps the luck of the "Dark Magic" that he was prone to spouting about.

(From time to time, Kiran sees him roaming about with Tharja and Rhajat. Perhaps he had simply gotten a hex from them?)

Lucius takes a moment to cap his current project with a cork before he replies.

"Oh, we were discussing the orphanage. It is strange to see him so tall though. The last I saw of him; he only went up to my chest."

There is a warmth in his voice, an almost (no, not almost) fatherly sort of pride, the kind one got when their children achieved a milestone, whether small or large. It was the sort parents were prone to, the love and rose-tint that came with caring for someone until they bloomed.

But, returning to subject, the orphanage? There was only one orphanage that Kiran associated with Raigh, and it was the one in Araphen, the one that wa—

Oh. _Oh_. That is incredibly unfortunate.

He had not paid as much attention the second tale set in Elibe; he had not been particularly fond of forgone conclusions. Thus, he had skimmed the story at some points, including the epilogue and the sections for characters he had not cared as much for. Lucius—his character anyway—had fallen into the second category.

Kiran had not theorized on Lucius's ending as much as some other characters. He would not have made the connection that the kindly monk that accompanied Eliwood's army and the father that died in Araphen were one in the same.

It is uncomfortable to think of someone he knows dying.

Perhaps his discomfort is obvious, but Lucius's face is full of worry.

"Is something wrong? Did you have an allergic reaction to the balm?"

"N-no, the balm was fine—thank you for it by the way—it's nothing."

Lucius is still concerned, but he reluctantly accepts the explanation anyway.

The rest of the visit goes well for the most part. Not too many patients and not too many visits relating to injury. They chat as usual, but it is not quite the same for Kiran. Their discussions today are benign, more focused on their hobbies than anything else. Apparently, Lucius held an interest in botany.

(The most serious injury they had come in was one of the kids, lightly bruised and lightly scraped from roughhousing as children do.)

The busy calm of the infirmary is deafening as a result; there is nothing to distract him.

* * *

Perhaps, it is spurred by seeing Raigh and Lucius together, but Kiran, for the first time since his arrival in Zenith, thinks of his parents.

Had they noticed his absence? Had they even attempted to find him? Or were they glad to be rid of him, glad to be rid of extra expenses and a useless body?

(Image meant that one simply couldn't abandon a child without rumors starting. There had been rumors about his status as a college dropout and a "starving artist" of course. But, the ones that would replace them if his parents had kicked him out would have been much worst he thinks. It was a religious sort of town, one that placed value on family.)

What would he have done if he had not arrived in Zenith? Would he have remained stagnant? Stuck in a house given only out of obligation rather than love? Would he have succeeded or would he have had withered away into a corpse, found on his literal (and metaphorical) deathbed—pillow adorned with wilted rose petals—when the smell became too horrible to bear?

It haunts him, follows him, footsteps heavy and like a lover's call, as he makes his way towards the castle courtyard.

* * *

He does not avoid Lucius this time, but he doesn't necessarily seek him out.

It is strange to consider death. Despite his status as the tactician and therefore his close proximity, it is not something that he considers often. He is not haunted by it in his dreams, his waking moments, or even in the occasional moments when he crossed paths with Reflet and Henry or even Karel.

It—eternity—was simply something he had not thought about, distanced from himself as sane humans do. The concept of death is not ground most treaded upon lightly; it was something to only be explored by the sick, the macabre, and the geniuses.

In part, he is bothered by the idea of the unknown—the concept of an afterlife. Perhaps it is because of his upbringing, but the thought of dying petrifies him. It is the concept of eternal damnation, forgiveness with a price tag, unknowing until one reached St. Peter's gates and judgement. To be judged by the prying eyes of another rather than the scales, it is a horrifying thought.

It is overwhelming in a way that he doesn't want to consider.

* * *

Surprisingly the next time they meet out of battle and business, it is in the chapel and more of a chanceful meeting than anything truly purposeful.

It is only chance that he passes by the doorway—hefty mahogany carved with Askr's insignia and curling rose vines. He does not really understand why he decides to enter—only that he does. They are heavy as he pulls on the brass door handles.

The chapel is a relatively small place, an alcove situated between the eastern gate tower and the soldiers' sleeping quarters.

Though, despite its size and overall outward appearance, the chapel is no less supplied or well-regarded than any of Askr's larger churches nor is it any less striking. The stained-glass windows are tall, towering over him and vibrantly otherworldly in their depictions. Enshrined in glass—in the window nearest to the altar—is a woman robed in clear red, her crystalline hand outstretched and her green-stained tome discarded. Across from her on the opposing wall is a man cloaked in fragmented blue—right hand outstretched much like his companion and violet-lit blade dropped at his feet.

Behind the altar, overlooking the pews, is a rose window. A dragon—crafted from white panels— curls around the center pane, its golden shard eyes vigilant for wrongdoing.

There is a sense of wistful familiarity in the chapel. Religious foundations, no matter their affiliation, tended towards a serenity—an ethereal calm that spoke to ages and dreams long past—and to an understanding that man no longer held the physical words for.

It was the sort of place that Kiran often avoided, uncomfortableness as it were.

Thus, he almost leaves—it had been a strange, impulsive decision to enter anyway—until he notices someone kneeling on one of the pew kneelers nearest to the dragon.

It is Lucius of course—hands clasped in wordless prayer, elbows resting on the wood, and head bowed.

The noon light streams through the windows and casts him in a cascade of colors—like warm autumn leaves falling. His hair is light auburn in the glow of the stained glass rather than his normal halo of blond.

It feels like he is intruding on a scene he should not be. It is a foolish thought of course; the chapel was open to everyone. But, it is there, nonetheless. It claws at him.

(Despite the Askrian-specific imagery, the chapel did not adhere to a particular religion, Zenith-based or otherwise. Anna had explained it as a remnant—a leftover from a time before the Order of Heroes was established and the castle had been home to a noble family.)

From its sunlit perch, the dragon glares.

Kiran feels the pinpricks of the dragon's gaze—its eyes judging and stern. There is a heat in his chest then, burning hotter with each passing moment he stays in the gaze of heaven.

He wants to get out. It would be easy enough as Lucius is the only one present besides himself, and he was absorbed in prayer. The corridors behind him are barren as well—devoid of people.

It would be simple to leave and pretend that he had never entered.

But he does not. Rather he stands there—frozen like a lamb—with the mahogany doors still open and his hand on the grip. The dragon glowers at him—the outsider, the intruder, the sinner—from its roost.

It feels like an hour (though it wasn't really) before Lucius stands and turns to leave.

Kiran can imagine the surprise on his face (he is too far away to get an accurate look). He had never been outwardly religious nor had he visit the chapel before then.

Though, he does not turn or rush to leave even as Lucius walks towards him.

It is like staring into the sun—mesmerizing, damaging, and destructive.

* * *

Kiran has not thought about religion in a long while—not since his visit to the chapel.

It had been simpler when he was a child—hand clasped in his mother's and dolled up for Church. Rather, it had been easier to follow along with her. He wasn't sure why it had stopped in all honesty.

(That is a lie of course, like many of the perceived truths in his life. But like everything else, he buries it yet again—another coffin to seal. Though this time, it is not as simple, not with Lucius around.)

* * *

That night—in the infirmary—he asks about the orphanage.

Lucius, happily enough, obliges.

He ends up hearing about Lucius's day-to-day life, Raven's visits, the orphans—Raigh, his twin, and someone named Chad in particular—and about Araphen and its continental neighbors. It is nice to hear Lucius be the one to ramble for once. Normally, Kiran was the one who went on a tangent—moving from subject to subject and from reason to reason like a hummingbird in flight.

When he asks about Raven's visits, the reason for why is astonishing. The man had given up his quest for vengeance. When he prods further for the reason, he is met with a larger surprise.

It is startling to learn that the Raven present at Askr is much younger—over a decade younger—than the Lucius present with him. It is even more of a surprise to learn that Lucius—despite his youthful face—is thirty-five. Though it doesn't bother him all too much once the initial shock fades.

It is still Lucius after all.

Kiran had just simply assumed that they had been summoned at similar ages.

(Though, it did raise questions about the other Heroes. Were all of them—the ones who shared a history at least—from similar time periods or different eras?)

However, when Lucius gets to Bern, Kiran's blood curdles.

"Bern has been advancing as of late."

Lucius, contemplative, stirs his current concoction, a comfrey-based salve mixture, before pouring it into a small tin container—one of the many that currently sat on the tabletop.

Kiran understands exactly what that detail—Bern's military movement—entails, and it frightens him.

"Though, I guess it doesn't matter much here—Embla and Askr have their own concerns after all."

Lucius muses, as he continues to fill the containers—carefully tipping the mixture into each one, always a centimeter from overflowing. It is a practiced movement from years of salve-making.

"Why don't you leave?"

Lucius looks at him, and Kiran's embarrassed at his own suggestion though not enough to retract it.

"And the children?"

"Take them with you?" It is a very weak suggestion and even his own voice lacks confidence.

Lucius just sighs (and Kiran feels like he has had this conversation before) before speaking once more.

"I understand your concern, but my obligations are to the orphanage."

There is an air of finality (and perhaps, annoyance) to it, and Kiran does not have the courage to push further.

* * *

There is an air of gloom around as he meets Virion for tea and as expected, Virion notices.

"Are you perhaps thinking of smashing another of my tea sets? I would at least appreciate a forewarning so I can supply you with an older set."

There is no real bite to it—simply a jest on Virion's part—but Kiran blushes anyway.

(His hands have healed for the most part though the scarring remains. More often than not, they're covered by his gloves—mistakes canopied like everything else.)

"N-no, not that."

Virion sips at his tea. He has chosen chamomile today. It is a bit of a strange choice considering the tea's properties, but Kiran's not one to question when it comes to trivial matters like this.

"Robin again then? I would have thought summoning Libra would have evened his temperament out but alas…"

"Not that either, Virion. Stop guessing."

(Robin actually had improved somewhat since Libra's arrival. He still held that certain lazy, obnoxious air about him, but it was more subdued when compared to his initial arrival, lacking in that peculiar brand of smugness. Additionally, it also helped that Reflet and Katarina had joined in on their tutoring sessions. It was a mix of temperaments rather than simply, just overwhelmingly, choleric.)

Virion hums and ignores his suggestion. Kiran supposes that they're close enough friends at this point that that was normal. It wasn't like he a good basis for judgment on those kinds of matters—he had not had friends before coming to Zenith.

"Lucius then?"

At the sight of Kiran's expression, Virion smiles into his tea and motions for him to speak. Kiran doesn't have much choice in the matter; Virion would pester him until he had what he wanted. He was that sort of man.

He sighs.

"Yes."

"And?" Virion gestures for him to continue, impatient.

"I asked him about the orphanage—the one he runs in Elibe and—" Kiran continues his explanation, leaving out the portion about the chapel. Virion did not really need to know about that; he would most likely be content enough with the information about the orphanage, enough to stop prying anyway.

'—and I feel like I've upset him. I didn't mean to of course. It's just—I'm worried about him. I mean after Askr's war finishes…" Kiran trails off, certain that Virion could piece together what he meant.

Virion, for his part, is a good listener, nodding along to Kiran's explanation.

"Have you've tried sincerely apologizing then? If you feel guilt, then an apology will most likely assuage it—alongside any ill will Lucius might feel. Though, I doubt the man would feel any serious malice towards you—it was a simple question, borne out of concern."

"Apologize?" Kiran's expression must have been the wrong one because Virion frowns.

"Yes, apologize. Even the greatest of people—such as myself—must apologize from time to time. Do you not apologize?"

Kiran's a bit defensive at this point.

"I-I do! It's just—I don't know where to begin…" It is left unsaid as he trails off, but he doesn't know where to begin when it came to Lucius. The man befuddled him in multiple ways and for multiple reasons. He makes Kiran question, and he does not particularly enjoy it.

"Start with words." Virion says it so simply, as if it is easy. It probably is for Virion considering his confidence.

"Perhaps a gift if you feel particularly inclined towards bribery." There is a wink that comes with that.

And that was the end of that.

* * *

Kiran skips over the gift this time. Though he does takes Virion's advice for an apology.

Like most of their off-business meetings, they meet in the infirmary. Despite Kiran's guilt, it is not much different from their normal meetings in all honesty. There is the same chatter—the variety in topics. It feels very much like a normal day.

Though, Kiran doesn't really know when to start. Would Lucius care? Did he even remember their conversation? Perhaps he would mess up somehow, make it worst?

So, he does it during a lull in the conversation—it is the best place he can think of anyway.

He rambles somewhat he thinks, but he hopes Lucius understands his overall meaning.

"—I didn't mean to upset you. I was just worried that you would be caught up in the conflict an—" Kiran doesn't know how to continue that. He didn't simply worry, he knew that Lucius would die if he stayed in Araphen; it was fact, destiny, whatever one preferred to call it.

(He didn't really understand when Lucius had become someone important to him. Like before, he feels the heat of the dragon's gaze and its claws at his heart.)

Though Lucius, perhaps sensing his hesitance in continuing, speaks.

"I was not upset." Kiran feels a sense of relief at that. "Though, I do appreciate your apology."

Kiran expects it to end then, but to his surprise, Lucius continues.

"However, I still cannot abandon the orphanage."

Kiran deflates at that, though he doesn't express it. That would defeat the point of his apology after all. He had not expected Lucius to reiterate his resolve so soon. He had expected it of course, but a verbal expression was quite different from a mental assumption.

"When I was three, my mother and father perished. Shortly thereafter, I found myself in an orphanage."

That stuns Kiran; he had not expected Lucius to reveal something so substantial in a conversation like this.

Noticing his expression, Lucius explains.

"I feel as if we are close enough to where I can speak to you of my past—and the reason for my reluctance to leave. Though if it causes you discomfort—"

"No!" Kiran reddens at that, he had not meant to shout. " I mean it doesn't bother me; it shouldn't. I'm just—just glad you feel comfortable sharing with me."

Lucius nods before continuing.

"There, I was treated poorly by everyone because of my appearance."

Kiran feels a pang of guilt there. Hadn't he avoided Lucius because of his appearance, made assumptions?

(Had he even apologized for that? Kiran can't quite remember. It has been months—a little under a year— since his arrival in Zenith and their meeting at the mountain altar.)

"In particular, one of my teachers there—he treated me especially cruelly. Poverty and despair does that to a soul."

He pauses to recollect himself before continuing.

"I wish to ease the pain others, to lighten their burden. Children—they're especially vulnerable to the world—and I want to shield them from needless suffering."

It is unsaid, but Kiran understands.

"Thus, I cannot leave. Even if it costs my life, I cannot abandon them."

Perhaps, it is selfish or self-serving then, but Kiran only nods.

He does not apologize then.

How could one even admit to their wrongdoing directly after a conversation like that?

* * *

He wants to apologize to Lucius, but days turn into weeks.

How did one approach that sort of topic, admit to legitimate guilt and grievances? Did one do it after dinner, before dinner? Perhaps before lunch? Obviously in private, but what else?

It obviously wasn't at the same magnitude of offense as his orphanage comment; it was objectively worst.

He does not know what to do, and it gnaws at his flesh and at his stomach.

November turns into winter before he finally works up the courage to apologize.

* * *

It takes him five minutes of pacing outside of the infirmary door before he enters, and to his surprise, Lucius isn't there—a rarity. Instead, it is Lachesis. While similarly blonde, she wasn't exactly who he was looking for.

The candlelight flickers, long and avaricious, in the shade of the room. The shadows play on Lachesis's face—sinister yet benign.

And he asks her.

"Lucius? He retired to his room early today. He was not feeling well."

He thanks her and makes his way out and to Lucius's sleeping quarters—the shadows dancing and cackling alongside him on the stone. He has to apologize tonight, before he lost his bravo.

He makes his way pass the sunset painting, walks up the stone stairs and pass the entrance of the library before he finally arrives at Lucius's room.

He hesitates at the door.

Should he really apologize? It was something that could potentially ruin their friendship.

But was Kiran's friendship really worth anything if he couldn't be honest? Was he deserving of Lucius's friendship if he couldn't even apologize for his mistakes?

(Robin's words from months ago echo in his mind. He really had not taken care of Lucius. It couldn't be called care if he wasn't authentic.)

Thus, he knocks thrice before he hears Lucius's voice answer.

The inside of Lucius's room is sparsely decorated. There is a loosely filled bookcase in the corner near the window. A potted plant—leaves lively swaying in the cool night air—sits on the windowsill. The walls are bereft of decorations.

Next to the bed is a wooden nightstand with a barely melted cream-colored candle—lit and charming.

There is not much in his room if Kiran is honest. He has a desk and a chair and a wardrobe as well of course, but it lacked any sort of defining items. No notes, no scattered books, not even some of Lucius's salve materials. Perhaps they were in the drawers, but Kiran doubts that. He has been with Lucius on most days, and the man's workspace was often littered with objects—colorful vials arbitrarily arranged, a plethora of bound herbs, the list went on—sorted in a way where only he could locate a material in an instance.

It is not as fanciful as Virion's room or as cluttered with books and notes as Robin's.

It is simple, almost unlived in, and for whatever reason that makes Kiran's heart ache.

On the room's rare inhabitant, he is tucked into bed, underneath a wool blanket and back resting against the headboard. His hands are crossed over his covered lap and a book is discarded by his side.

"Did you need something, Kiran?"

(There is his name again. It is sweet, burning molten, when Lucius says it.)

"If it is about my absence, I apologize. I simply did not feel up to task tonight." There is a weak smile at that.

Kiran shakes his head before speaking.

"No, I came to"—he lingers on that a moment, hesitant, before finishing, words lilting softer—"make an apology."

Lucius tilts his head slightly.

"For what?"

"For"—it's hard to get out, to say in the quiet glow of the of the room—"how I treated you—when we first met, I mean, afterwards as well. I-I wasn't sincere, and"—his throat is tightening up then, but he has to finish, for Lucius.

It is not about him in this moment.

"I treated you differently because of your appearance."

It is somewhat silly when he phrases it like that; it sounds like a topic meant for kindergarten rather than a conversation between two adults. But, Kiran hopes his words, his meaning makes it to Lucius.

Though, Kiran had not expected Lucius's answer.

"I know."

"W-what?" He sounds even more like a child then, easily confused and lacking in eloquence.

He reiterates, "I know, and I do not hold it against you. It is…a matter that I am quite used to."

His smile is forgiving, but Kiran can see the slightest hint of tenseness in it, unnoticeable to anyone who had not spent months in the man's company. It is a sore topic for him.

Kiran wants to argue then, to blame himself or avoid the truth, but he doesn't.

He simply admits.

"No, it wasn't…right. In any part."

He takes a breath then—inhale then exhale.

"I shouldn't have treated you like I did. But, I shouldn't have waited as long as I did to apologize either. I shouldn't have waited until you confided in me."

Inhale and exhale. It is a thing taken for granted until the routine is disrupted.

"I…want to ask for your forgiveness."

His hood is down then and head bent, eyes staring at the floor. It had been difficult enough to look at Lucius during the entire thing—and he simply wasn't shameless enough to keep doing so.

There is a creak of bed springs, the sound of fabric shuffling, and the light thump of bare feet on stone before Kiran feels a pair of arms enshroud his shoulders and a chin gently rest on the top of his head.

Lucius's hair tickles his cheeks, and his body is warm despite the chill of the winter night.

(The flames singe his heart, and the shadows wheedle at his soul. He feels like Samael falling willingly into ruination.)

It is enough.

* * *

It becomes easier to talk to Lucius, not that it had particularly difficult before of course. Rather, the air, the atmosphere, around them is lighter, less stilted in a way that had not been noticeable before.

Today, unlike most other days, it is a different setting for them. Rather than the enclosed stone walls of the infirmary, they're in the castle gardens, waiting for the sunrise.

(He doesn't really understand why a military fortress would need a garden, but like always, Anna has an answer. According to her, it is simply another leftover from when the fortress was merely a castle, a home for some other noble family. As for why the gardens are continually maintained, it acts as a natural respite for the weary—townsfolk and solider alike. Furthermore, it was simply pretty. There is not much more to it, she had said with a shrug.)

The coniferous trees—pines, cedars, and firs— are shawled in white, all standing proudly tall like madams at a masked ball. They meander around a frosted fishpond—the brittle crystal reflecting hues of violets, orange, and blues. Framing the pond is an expanse of white. A duo of stone benches sat close by, overlooking the pond and its inhabitants.

In the corner of the gardens, near the hedge maze and the storehouse, is a massive apple tree—gangly, brown limbs dusted with Jack's mischief and outstretched toward the patchwork sky. Underneath it stands a pair of carrot-nosed snowmen—Fae's and Tiki's wintery magnum opuses.

(Those carrots would not be missed in all honesty. It is a month and a half before New Year, and their carrot-laden victory prize from the Spring Festival has not even deceased an inch. Kiran is tired of having carrot with every meal. Even carrot cake had lost its appeal; it, like many things in life, is only a treat when one does not have to eat it for every other dessert.)

Askr Castle's gardens are picturesque in way that wasn't all too different from one of his mother's postcards—pristine and ageless like a miniature imitation of Eden or even Paradiso. It is a lovely place and a lovely time—an early December morning, uncommon in its relative mildness and its gentle caress.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment type of occasion, an impulse one often thought up in the moments after escaping Morpheus's clutches and before rationality's awakening. It is a simple thing—an invitation extended between friends for idleness—but for Kiran, it causes him a feeling of nervousness—a flutter, a flap of nightingale wings within his thumping, humming heart.

Kiran had almost retracted his offer, certain in its foolishness at Lucius's pause, before the other man abruptly agreed.

And that was that. He certainly couldn't have made an excuse after that or even canceled; he was the one who had suggested the idea after all. It would have been incredibly poor manners to cancel after Lucius had cleaned his workspace and packed the herbs and flasks back into the cabinets.

(He is quite unsure of what to think of Priscilla's curious glance or Elise's bouncing steps, particularly eager as of late.)

The walk through the corridors and towards the gardens had been a quiet one outside of the thrumming of his heart.

The snow crunches under their boots as they made their way towards a bench.

It is awkward at first—silent outside of the distant serenade of the surrounding town and the occasional chirping of winter-borne birds, vigorous and vibrant despite the lulling embrace of nature's twilight. From the cold, their breathes come out as faint puffs—will-o'-the-wisps given and taken from dust.

He is keenly aware of his own heart: the hum, the thrum, the beat of unfamiliar anxiety.

It is a certain quiet that Kiran couldn't adapt to, a quiet that lived between the Morning Star and its fading rise. It is a time between Heaven and Earth—present upon Oneiroi's shifting shores and often isolated from one's waking remembrances.

It is both comfortable and uncomfortable—an absurdity contrived from meeting familiarity in unfamiliarity. Though, Lucius doesn't seem to mind, content with simply admiring the scenery—between the rowing clouds and the busywork of flitting birds and amid the airy white.

At his side, Lucius—crowned by the peeking sunrise and the twelve stars—cups his hands to his mouth and blows, whistling breath warming his hands. His cheeks are rosy from the light chill. Outside of that, there is not much noise from him. He is more intent on watching the sunrise.

(Vibrant, vibrant, it whisks his breath away, quicker, easier than any choir hymn.)

Surrounded by the fallen snow and the glimmer of daybreak, he is otherworldly—more fit for a painted canvas, some noble immortalized by one of the Greats, or as an angel serenading than as a mortal man.

It is a calm that should not be broken—unearthly in its normality—but Kiran couldn't quite help it.

So, he speaks first, his words piercing the air like a holy lance.

Despite the etherealness of the occasion, his questions are simple, bland in their ordinariness, but Lucius answers, nevertheless.

If it is not for the noise of creation and the slight chill that Kiran feels, he would have forgotten the world around them—frosted and nipping rather than the candle-warmed stone of the infirmary.

He almost forgets the original reason for their meeting until he feels a tug on his sleeve and a warmth on his hand as Lucius, with his other hand, points towards the sun. He is almost embarrassed, having lost track of time and the path of Helios.

But, Lucius's hand is hot on his—warmer, much warmer, than his sight—and he is quite unsure of the reason for why he has not moved (or why Lucius had not withdrawn, having accomplished his task of acquiring his attention).

But in the silence of daybreak—in the world born after glooming twilight—it is easy enough to lay his hand there, on the cold stone and covered by the warmth of another's.

* * *

It is a late night as Kiran walks towards the infirmary. His footsteps echo faintly on the stone as the candle flames flicker, watching and waiting.

His meeting with the other tacticians had taken much longer than he expected.

(Surprisingly, it is not Robin's or Soren's fault this time. Despite Robin's tendency to rankle his counterpart—it still surprises him how different they are—and Soren's general prickliness, it is simply a matter of tasks. There had simply been too much to discuss after the emergence of the Tempest.)

He hopes Lucius had not had too long of a wait. Today (or rather, yesterday) had been the date of one of their salve-making lessons.

(He is getting better, he thinks. The colors are starting to appear closer to their appropriate forms, and he had not burned a pan in quite a while. It is progress at the very least, and it is nice to see Lucius's smile when he succeeds.)

Reaching the door, he knocks on the wood, the sound quite audible in the receding light of the hallway. Though, he doesn't get a reply—neither a mournful call for Lenore nor even a simple acknowledgement to come in. With some guilt, Kiran delicately turns the knob and pushes, mindful of the hinges' slight squeaking and the scrape of wood on stone.

As expected, Lucius is asleep at his desk, cheek pressed against his forearm. The candles are (thankfully) put out, the remnants of their last life still present in their fading breath and darkened wicks. With another pang of guilt, Kiran notes the unused materials. On the desk, near the edge, sat a few tins and twine-bound herbs—most likely pushed to the side when Lucius decided on his impromptu nap.

Lucius looks peaceful in sleep, and Kiran couldn't bring himself to wake the man (nor would he want to). Instead, Kiran draws closer to him, intent on ridding the desk of its containers, flasks, and herbs. He could do at least that much for Lucius; he knows where everything is organized and stored anyway.

Though as he draws closer to the desk and to the man, Kiran notices how Lucius's chest rose and fell with each breath and how the fabric of his robe fitted against his skin. But in particular, he notices how Lucius's hair fell on his face and over his eyelids— tresses tousled and untidy from shifting in his sleep.

In that moment, in its abnormality, Kiran wants to brush the blond strands away—tuck them behind his ear, anything so it wouldn't bother Lucius as he slept. He almost does until he stops—fingertips inches from a stray strand—realizing the oddness of the gesture.

It is a peculiarly intimate sentiment—too intimate—and Kiran flushes, cheeks reddening, at the realization.

He busies himself then with his original purpose—cleaning Lucius's desk. He carefully tucks the sundries into the crook of his arm and makes his way to the cabinets. Herbs go on the middle shelf, lavender oil on the top, next to the tea seed oil, and so forth. It is easier to fixate on what went where than on the whys.

After a few minutes of tidying, he finishes and almost leaves until he notices Lucius shift.

He is almost worried that he had woken him—disturbed him from a well-earned rest—until Lucius's breath steadies, and he stills once more, still lost in slumber.

A thought strikes Kiran then, and it makes him nervous, acutely anxious. It is a chilly night, quite unlike the mild morning of the previous day. He did not want him to catch a cold or wake during the middle of the night uncomfortable (as comfortable as a chair could be anyway).

He could have gone to retrieve a blanket, but he is not quite sure where the linen closets are, and most of the servants are gone for the night—gone back home to their warm dinner and cozy beds. For the few that remained, he isn't quite sure where they would be wandering. Askr Castle is still quite large after all.

He hesitates on his next action before his resolve settles in. Perhaps it is bravado drawn from a lack of sleep, but it does not quite matter in the moment. His morning self could deal with it anyway.

He slips his overcoat off and clutches it tightly in his hands, undecided once more. Would Lucius take offense? Was he overstepping bounds once again?

He is not quite sure even as his body moves for him. Careful to be quickly light as not to disturb him, Kiran gently drapes the coat over Lucius's shoulders. To his gladness, Lucius stirs not once; he had been afraid that the movement would wake him.

Despite their difference in height, the hem of the coat's bottom drags slightly on the flooring—most likely due to Lucius's current position. Otherwise, Kiran doubts that his coat would have reached the floor; he is still (unfortunately) taller after all.

It is a warm coat. Hopefully, it would be a suitable makeshift replacement for the night.

Content, Kiran leaves, careful to shut the door behind him quietly. It is a cold walk back to his sleeping quarters, but it is worth it, he thinks.

At least, for tonight.

* * *

Kiran wakes to a tapping on his chamber door.

By the shy light that cascaded through his window, it had only been a few hours—perhaps five at most—since he had wandered back to his room and fallen into bed—clothes still worn. He had neither bathed nor changed into his nightwear.

As a result, most couldn't blame Kiran for his groggy and disheveled appearance. The fabric of his turtleneck clung to his sweaty skin, and his pants—more suited for horseback riding than bedtime—felt scratchy on his flesh. If he had a mirror on his bedroom wall, it would have most likely reflected a ruffled look—his hair more akin to a cockatoo rather than its normal straightness and eyes reminiscent of racoon.

Perhaps, as a result, he is a bit irritable as well, answering the door with a bit more force than necessary.

Though to his alarm, it is Lucius. His overcoat is folded neatly and tucked into the curve of his arm.

He seems particularly concerned, unsurprising considering Kiran's grotesque appearance and irritable demeanor.

"Is this perhaps a bad time?"

Kiran's cheeks redden as last night's memories flood back into his mind. He certainly could not back out now; it isn't like he could rewind time back to hours before.

"N-no, it's not! I'm sorry"—he rubs the back of his head then, both in embarrassment and as an attempt at smoothing out his hair—"It's just a bit early, and I wasn't expecting a visitor."

Actually, was this Lucius's first visit to his sleeping quarters? Kiran's mortified at the thought. He is not exactly presentable at the moment nor is his room. His books, both tactical tomes and casual reading, are strewn and stacked about the place—everywhere except for the bookcase where they belonged.

His bedsheets and quilt are rumpled from his nighttime turning. His desk fares no better, papers clipped together in sets and piled up like a miniature Tower of Babel. Overall, it is a very poor image for the Order of Heroes' tactician—one that was not exactly representative of him. Normally, his quarters were never this untidy.

Lucius nods before speaking. Thankfully, he doesn't comment further on Kiran's appearance nor does he enter, preferring to stand at the entrance.

"I came to return this"—he extends Kiran's coat to its owner—"and to thank you."

Kiran reddens further at that, both at the gratitude and at the memory of his actions earlier. In hindsight, it had been a foolish, awkward idea.

"N-no problem!" Kiran wishes he had his coat on. Then, he could simply hide behind his hood. Instead, it is in his hands, and that doesn't do much good.

Slipping his coat back on, there is not much else to do but bid Lucius a temporary farewell. They would see each other at breakfast in an hour or two anyway.

After closing the door (gently this time), Kiran buries his face into his hands.

How could he have been so awkward? Ever since their time in the gardens, he has been nothing but odd around Lucius.

It is perplexing, but there is not much more he can do at the moment.

Instead, he simply decides to tidy up his bedroom chamber, starting with his desk and its scattered stacks.

That is easy enough, and he does not want to be caught unaware the next time a guest showed up.

* * *

**AN**: I'm starting to finally get to the chapters where the literary and religious allusions and such are the heaviest.

There is the obvious theme of guilt underlying everything, and I think Kafka's a rather excellent choice for this chapter's title considering how his life played out and how his works utilize everything. I was gonna pick "Metamorphosis" instead for a later chapter but that was too cliche honestly (more so than what I put out anyway). As an aside, the reference to rose petals upon the pillow (more accurately that section) is more specifically to Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," one of my favorite short stories that deal with secrets, class relations and the collapse of an era, and death.

Though, there is no actual rose in the story. There's also the burgeoning religious blasphemy that Kiran's guilty of that becomes more obvious this chapter. "twelve stars," for example is a motif found in Baroque art, and it's commonly associated with immortality and more relevantly for this, the Madonna, or Mary the Mother, in some pieces. What that says about Kiran is up to interpretation; I certainly have my own answers, but I think it's more fun as a reader to decide on your own. Similarly, there are other themes like loneliness and expression coming into play; look at what Kiran says in comparison to what he does.

Honestly though, you can find hundreds of references and literary device usage in this fic-symbolism, motifs, references to the arts, literature, history, and concepts like dramaturgy-if you are inclined to. For this fic, think of it like Moby Dick with its idea of expression and explanations of whale-hunting but nowhere near as well-written (and with much less whale-hunting).


	5. Blasted Tree

**AN**: Notes transcribed exactly from the AO3 version.

Today's title comes from the Romantics, more specifically one of the most famous usages of the phrase with Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Lovely novel and one of the best western classics in my opinion in how everything is written and tied together; it was (and is still) rather revolutionary and "shocking" to the public as well upon release. Mary Shelly, by no exaggeration, was a genius surrounded by genius (Godwin, Wollstonecraft, Lord Byron, and so forth). She started Frankenstein at age eighteen and published at twenty.

As another note, we're roughly little under a quarter through of this and as a result of length and my real-life obligations, I will only be doing very cursory reads of this and upcoming chapters. I do not have a beta, and everything is done by me. Please forgive any mistakes.

* * *

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

— "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot

Deciding on gifts for everyone is a trying task, and it is not particularly helped by his time limit. He only has twenty-five days left until the Winter Festival.

(He had first heard about it from Sharena, her excitement at the holiday abundantly clear in her voice and mannerisms. Until then, he had forgotten about Christmas. Though, it is not quite called that in Zenith. Sharena had only given a blank look when he had called it that. Though, he should have expected that. There was no reason for that particular version of the holiday to form here.)

For the most part, it is due to his reluctance to repeat items; it—the Winter Festival—did not quite feel as special if he just thoughtlessly bought everyone the same gift. Of course, it is quite difficult (for both his creativity and his wallet) with over one hundred fifty people present, but he makes do as best as he can.

Though, he does cheat a bit. Not all of his gifts are particularly deep or symbolic. For example, he buys Fae a deer antler headband and a puffy fur-lined child's cape from one of the town merchants. It is not that he thinks less of her than the others, but rather, he thinks that she would have preferred something simple, something cute over a poem or something of that ilk.

In a similar vein of thinking, he buys the younger Tiki a mantle, deep red with tan accents, and Nowi a muted pink ribbon and a matching winter shawl.

It is getting colder after all, and Maneketes—at least in their draconic forms—are coldblooded. He thinks anyway. He is not one hundred percent sure how the transformation works, especially with all three coming from different worlds and the variations in their draconic appearances.

However, they are still both pretty garments in his opinion, cheerfully endearing.

The merchant he had bought them from had thought so at least. The woman had been tenacious and incredibly charismatic when it came to marketing. If Alfonse—sensing an impending scam—had not called him over to browse the nearby fruit stand, Kiran's sure his wallet would have been much lighter.

(Thankfully, Anna pays him a salary, a sizable one as well. It is a surprising yet no less welcomed perk of his position.)

For others like Gaius or Lucina, it is simple enough to visit one of the town's confectioners to commission a box of assorted chocolates—pale whites, dark browns, and milky hazels formed into miniature bite-sized replicas of his cloak's bear pin—or one of the local tailors for a colorful scarf.

But for others like Karel or Legion, it is a daunting task.

(On that particular occasion, he had eventually settled on a whetstone. He is not sure if the Wo Dao blade ever dulled, but it is the thought that counts, he thinks. For Legion, it was a still a matter up for consideration.)

However, in particular, he finds it difficult to decide on a gift for Lucius.

It is not the type of item that he finds confounding, but rather, Kiran simply does not know what to paint for him. Would a sunrise—akin to the one they saw a few days prior—be acceptable, adored even? Or would Lucius simply thank him in his normal manner, kind and polite but not necessarily awed? Would it simply be a gift that one politely accepted and then cast away into a dark corner, never to be thrown away because of some social rule of etiquette?

Perhaps a sunset instead? Maybe the ocean? He had enjoyed their visit to the beach back in the summer after all.

The possibilities are vast, and Kiran does not quite know what to paint. Some ideas feel trivial while others would be difficult because of the timing or location. He simply could not use funding and resources for a beach time visit—in winter no less. Outside of simple wastefulness, he could not exactly keep his reason for wanting to go a secret. Most excuses would not work either.

That is part of the problem with working with a shrewd miser and an energetic, entirely too inquisitive, extrovert. Secrets could not exactly stay as they were.

(Alfonse would most likely be the only one to not outwardly question him, and even then, Kiran could imagine him raising an eyebrow at the idea of "wintertime beach fun" as a reward for the Heroes.)

Of course, he had thought of simply painting a portrait—perhaps of Raven and Raigh or even of Lucius himself—but he had never been quite as good at those as he was at natural scenes. His portraits often held too many failings, imperfections bordering the macabre—too uncanny, too lacking in everything but the technical, and so forth. Kiran could not quite capture the charm of a breathing, living, human individual like he could with the natural environment.

(He could ask Libra for lessons, but Kiran did not quite think he would have understood it in time for the Winter Festival, not with the Order's daily work and the task of selecting and procuring the other Heroes' gifts. After all, he had only learned of the Winter Festival a month and a half ago.)

Or perhaps, he could choose something else entirely? Indecisiveness seems to be his norm lately, especially in matters concerning Lucius. Why? Like his gift, Kiran is not particularly sure on that either.

Kiran fiddles with the cloth ribbon of his current project—pale pink and blooming like a summer chrysanthemum—and thinks.

Deftly pulling the curls of the fabric loose—it is not quite up to his standards—Kiran finds it easier to think than to ponder.

* * *

On the following day, he picks up Virion's gift or rather, if one wanted to be more accurate, half of it. It is a Xiangqi folding board—polished and carved from beechwood and finished with an oil coating.

It is a remarkable, skillfully cut and painted with care. If Kiran had been a more dimwitted man, he would almost mistake it for a factory-made good rather than as a product of a master craftsman. It is especially apparent after the man—remarkably young for his apparent skill—had simply nodded after receiving his specifications, somewhat vague from being drawn out of a dusty recess of his mind, like a lass's childhood doll found in the attic.

Though, the accompanying pieces would not be finished until next week.

The board and pieces are expensive, having been handmade according to Kiran's rough estimates and specifications rather than mass-produced. Not to mention, the materials themselves. In particular, the pieces had been difficult to find. Or rather, it had been the carver that had been difficult to find. If the carver existed, the material would follow soon after.

Jade is not the easiest material to find, especially in a world like Zenith. He had only learned of its existence in Zenith because of a footnote in one of the castle library's history books—a mention of jade as good luck charm, a favored talisman of some lady general of old.

(That is one thing he sort of missed from his world if Veritas listened. He missed the convenience of things—the ease in which one could procure necessities, whether for play or for need.)

It, the book, had been the spark needed for Virion's gift. The man held a keen interest in board games, especially for the tactical sort, and Xiangqi did not seem to be a game that he was familiar with. At the very least, Virion did not seem to have one on hand; he had not brought a board out during their teatimes anyway.

(Before Xiangqi, he had considered Hnefatafl. At least he had until Alfonse had pulled out a board after one particular tactics meeting. Whether unfortunate or fortunate, Kiran had almost immediately lost once he had begun playing. Despite Alfonse's serious demeanor or perhaps as a result of it, he was merciless when it came to the game. Though, he could not quite beat Katarina in the round after.)

Kiran does not believe himself to be an expert on the game, Xiangqi, but he at the very least, knew the rules, or a memory of them.

Watersmeet's library had had a Xiangqi strategy book lodged on one of its shelves, and in a moment of boredom, he had checked it out, read it cover to cover. It was not the most interesting read or something that one would recommend to a beginner but he had finished it at least. He has a sense of the rules, more technical than practical.

Of course, jade is not a requirement for the pieces, but Kiran is insistent on it, both for the aesthetic and for the expensiveness of it. He wants something that would clearly show his appreciation, and money was often the easiest way for a gift to shine.

It is a bit cynical to think of it that way, but it is simply a given truth in Kiran's opinion. It is not the sort of thing meant to disparage, but rather to enhance.

Though it had not increased the weight of his depleting coin purse.

* * *

"If you do not mind my curiosity, what is your world like?"

Lucius's question startles Kiran from his thoughts—an increasing regularity these days.

His eyes are expectant, shimmering with curiosity in the gloom of dusk.

On his table, a bundle of loosely tied lavender sits beside a lonesome flask. Unlike most other days, Lucius had not unpacked much—most of his herbs and tools remained safety tucked away in their designated cabinets, to be used on another day.

Kiran is almost at a lost then. How would he answer? It is not that he is offended, but how did one go about describing a world that they never really had to think about, the normality of everything that would seem strange to another?

How would he explain cars, television, the concept of celebrities or guns? For that matter, where would he start? Should he start with the more important matters or would it be easier to simply star with and elaborate on his day-to-day life (as drab as it was)? Would he need to give a basis, a history of his world, for everything to make sense?

Perhaps it was a bit patronizing of him. Lucius was a smart man, one who had lived through a war and continually provided for others, one entirely capable of understanding and piecing together whatever haphazard hodgepodge he could put together as an explanation.

But, as he thought a bit more, how could he explain the scope of atrocities and history-defining events like the Industrial Revolution?

There is no such thing as dragons, provoked to madness by their cursed blood, in his world or even malevolent gods or mystical items. Legends certainly but not reality. There is nothing to really justify anything, nothing to push individuals, civilizations, forward, nothing except for their own choices and the whimsical favor of luck, whether wanted or unwanted.

In the end, there is only humans and ambitions and the chime of discovery and godsent ideals.

It is frustrating, flustering to think about.

Perhaps he pauses for too long, but Lucius speaks again.

"You do not have to answer if it is an uncomfortable topic." It is soft, amicable, comforting like the hum of a cathedral organ, neither spiteful nor annoyed. It is oppressive in the flickering candle flame, welcomed yet pervasive.

There is a furl in his chest, one he would have liked to blame on the muggiest of a summer's waning night or the inquisitive gaze of a peeking autumn moon, but he couldn't.

Perhaps six or perhaps eight months ahead he would, but in this moment, he could not, not for lack of temptation, but simply because the world was not in his favor.

"N-no"—there is the stuttering again—"I'm just unsure on where to begin."

The moments afterwards are awkward, or at the very least, awkward for Kiran. That seemed to be a common occurrence lately.

He takes a few moments to gather himself. He does not really want to start on the entirely mundane nor on anything wholly too graphic and complicated—he is relatively well-read but never really an expert on the intricacies of history, the whys and hows of everything and of mortal men.

That does not leave much to talk about in all honesty—fluff and fairy's dust.

He rolls the ideas through his mind, contemplating and discarding and moving inbetween the notions like an indecisive child, keen on chocolate yet still craving frosted cake. He does not want to bore Lucius or swindle him of his time with fanciful and foolish pleasantries—more fit for passing strangers and idle elevator conversation than for what they currently were.

He does not want to hold up the other man as well. As patient as he was, Kiran did not want to hold him up with the silence and the night's caressing chill—damning yet comforting.

Thus, he eventually settles on the subject of religion. It is not his first choice, but it is a familiar, (uncomfortable) topic—both unearthly yet terribly common—for the both of them.

Well, the uncomfortable part was more to Kiran's benefit than for anyone else.

It is a subject that he could and willingly would avoid the bigger issues on—the Great Schism, the Crusades, and near-countless other events, tiny, soundless, blips in the overall scheme of the universe yet all-encompassing for humanity.

He thinks Lucius could piece together—infer—the whys and hows of everything himself though he would most likely be too polite to comment.

The presence of denominations and classifications would hint to such. Kiran is not dimwitted enough to think Lucius is naive enough to miss such a clue nor that he would assume that harmony would exist in such an expansive organization.

It certainly had not existed in Lucius's own encounters.

Perhaps it is because it is Lucius or perhaps it is because it is a familiar pastime—that of word-crafting—but Kiran finds his words flow easier despite the subject matter.

Unsurprisingly or not, Kiran starts with Genesis and with Adam and Eve. In part, his choice stems from the familiarity of the story, one that his mother (and sometimes, his father) often read to him when he was younger—before he became self-proficient.

Furthermore, for Kiran, it is simply easier to start with a topic that some would consider fictitious, a fantasy for the less educated or for the incredibly idealistic. Not for its simplicity or because of some sort of patronization for religion but simply because it is the sort of story that he could compartmentalize and separate from his own reality.

While some considered it to be truth, spun from the skillful hands of Clotho or perhaps by Urðr or some other higher being, it is still an event—a creation story—that was far-flung from the present of Kiran, like a rock released from a sling. It is a story that both held significance yet didn't, akin to water flowing through a fisherman's swelling net. Simply, it could not affect him in a way cemented its genuineness.

Finally, it, as something not entirely rooted in factual history, lent itself more to Kiran's style of storytelling and to embellishment. He did not have to understand, or rather, overthink, the intricacies of it. No warfare tactics, no conjecture on human behavior or rationality, nothing except the narrative—already given, clay needing shape.

He simply has to tell a story, form something from the bits of human thought and history meshed into time's fabrication.

He is Aruru forming Enkidu, Athena breathing life into clay, Scheherazade regaling Shahryar.

In that moment, he is simply a storyteller—not Askr's tactician, not the Summoner, or even just Kiran. He is merely a vehicle for one of humanity's inherent traditions, its unspoken words, its feelings, its history unerased by time or conflict.

Kiran stumbles in his words, stuttering from time to time over terms he would have no problem with if the situation were different. His tongue slips on vowels, catches on the hard "C's," forgets words he otherwise wouldn't.

He is more used to writing his ideas out—his stories on paper, ink scratching and graphite smearing into the dead of night and morning and midday—rather than verbalizing them to another person.

Lucius, for his part, does not laugh at him or motion for him to stop. He listens, sometimes asking for clarification.

(Kiran did not think he would. Lucius is not that sort of person, if he ever was. Kiran certainly couldn't imagine that. But, that did not mean the fear merely ceased to exist. It is naturally human to fear mockery and rejection.)

Perhaps he stretches the tale longer than he should (for everything could be summarized in a few sentences, as could be attested to by countless priests and laymen), but Kiran, to his astonishment, finds himself enjoying the occasion. It is not as uncomfortable or as difficult as he thought it would be.

Despite language failing him, it is enjoyable, pleasurable even, to share his thoughts—his craft really—with another. It is a sort of intimacy that surprises him, astonishes him with both its pleasure and the yearning for human intimacy.

Instead, he finds himself dreading the end, the chapter closing.

Perhaps he describes the serpent's scales more than necessary, a lulling sheen of blue green like dew on spring grass at daybreak, the mossy colors flecking the mushroom tops and the grassy, flowering hillsides, the rivers and ponds, miniature cosmos swirling beneath nature's looking glass.

He describes the garden, the world as it was during creation, the loneliness of a creator. It is long-winded, lacking in the refinement of a final draft.

(That was another perk of writing over speaking. He could edit as he go or perhaps at the end if it suited him. He could even change outcomes if the turn of time was nonsensical. If an event or character was unsuited to his tastes he could simply change them into something more favorable, predictable—an almost infinite amount of attempts for each occasion, only limited by his imagination and patience. He had no such thing when it came to real people—not characters. There was no forgiveness if one messed up.)

He continues, hands gesturing and shadows moving—casted puppets shaking along with the strings of his melody. He talks of the temptation, of the fruit and morality, of original sin and cold flame and isolation.

It is easy enough to fall into normalcy, into routine and into the brimstone lake.

* * *

To Kiran's delight (and embarrassment), Lucius does not seem to mind listening to his ramblings. Of course, they have their daily conversations and chitchats (and those were a particular delight), but for Kiran, stories were a different matter, something personal. It wasn't particularly helped that these specific stories, aided by his embellishment, were related to faith.

Kiran's relationship to religion is not particularly spotless nor was it particularly troubled. There had been no major, earthshaking event that had robbed him of his belief, nothing cataclysmic like a parent's untimely death or the discovery of a fatal, terminal disease. There was no failure of deliverance, prayers unanswered and pleas unanswerable.

Of course, he had prayed during his youth, during his stays at the hospital, but it had been more of repetition, a taught mimicry rather than anything serious. It had been a child's gullible prayer rather than one that held the gravity and desperation of an adult. For Kiran, his health had not been anything other than normalcy, an irritating sort of normalcy but still normalcy.

He did not have any of the more serious diseases, the ones that he sometimes saw wheeled about. In comparison, his life could be considered idyllic.

(Though, now that he thought about it, his health was much better in Zenith than it had ever been on earth. While his hospital stays had decreased as he had grown older, they had never entirely dissipated. It is a bit of an oddity now that he considered it, one that he had so far ignored in favor of the excitement of Askr and its magic. Perhaps it was the magic?)

Rather, he had simply drifted, drawn into himself. Perhaps it had been a long, insidious process or merely day's progression, but the reasons did not matter as the situation stood.

How could he reconcile the idea of transmigration and magic with the laws of his own world? Not to mention the idea of multiple worlds (timelines even) and a temporary death.

(Sigurd's allusions to his own demise and his frequent visitations to Seliph and Deidre were not lost on Kiran.)

He certainly could not answer that nor did he want to contemplate it. It was simply a cause for a headache.

Of course, it had been a scandal of sorts when he stopped attending church, an aggravation and stain on his parents' reputation. It wasn't like he could change it either. In that sort of environment, everyone knew everyone, especially in a town where Catholicism was a rarity rather than the norm.

His mother had attempted to ease the consequences of course, as was her natural course manner. First, it had simply been excuses—new medication that left him bedridden, a visit to a nonexistent cousin or aunt, and so forth. It wasn't particularly compliant with what they were taught, but that was the sort of thing that pervaded their particular community—appearance intertwined with truth.

Kiran certainly had not minded her attempts. He much preferred his novels anyway. Everything was laid out in stories—flaws, virtues, history and future. Nothing changed, and the course was set—literary predestination. No matter how complex a character or story was, one could pull back the layers, peel the layers off like a paring knife on an apple, and reveal their core, their essence.

There is no such thing in the present, and that bothered him.

His father had been different. Unlike his mother, his father was a more upfront man, straightforward and honest. He was a lenient man by all accounts, easygoing in almost every way except for a few.

Religion happened to be one of them.

He had yelled, not enough to alert the neighbors of course, but enough to pierce the thin door that separated Kiran from the outside. He had not banged on the door (with his father's burliness and size—the very picture of the all-American man—his fist would have most likely gone through the door). He had merely shouted at him, spoke of discipline and religious—familial—obligation

Back then, Kiran had done the best to drown him out, binding himself to his novels. He was young—still is young—and like all youth, assured in his own rightness and prone to his own whims, justified or otherwise.

His father had not laid hands on him when he had left his room for dinner nor did he speak to him. It had been an awkward sort of time, one that he would have avoided if he was less keen on etiquette.

His father had tried a few more times, the same shouting every Sunday, until one noon, he simply stopped. It had been both a blessing and a shame. Kiran had not enjoyed the shouting of course, but his father had been much more distant after that—a phantom, a figment that held the skin of his father.

His mother had nudged him towards his father, and Kiran had refused, intentionally avoided situations where they would have existed together in the same sphere. It had been particularly difficult to do so as Kiran had lived in the same house, shared the same utilities, but, to him, it had would have been much harder to reconcile. That was simply the manner of humans.

It was simply easier to avoid problems rather than to face them head-on. It was hard to confront and to reconcile. It is hard to be human.

(It startles him. When had he begun to think of his parents in the past tense? They weren't dead by any account that he knew of. Though, as he considers, would his parents miss him? He was their only child of course, but they had not exactly parted on good terms. He finds himself remembering simple, almost inconsequential notions—his mother's cooking, the mahogany bookshelf his father built for him, and the warmth of a parent's hug.)

It had been unnoticeable before, drowned out by isolation and writing, but there is an almost ache in his heart. He will not admit that he is wrong of course. He certainly does not think he is for simply making life decisions.

But, it burns his heart heavy, incapable of escaping the scale's weighing.

It is difficult to decide when his parents' love had become conditional. Certainly, one was taught that a parent never withdrew their support or love for their child, no matter the fault or situation. One was further taught that a bond between child and parent never severed. Even with death, it simply turned into a yearning, a bittersweet bond flavored by rose-pink memories and remembrances of lily-white childhood.

But that had obviously proved to be a false statement.

It hurts to think about, and he wishes he had not stumbled into the infirmary that day. It had been simple enough when Zenith held its magic and his attention.

But as much as he wishes to forget—to overlook—once more, the ink can no longer draw him into its embrace.

* * *

Kiran ends up drafting in-between meetings and the hustle of preparations for the Winter Festival.

(It becomes a common sight to see Kiran, ink and parchment in hand, scribbling. In these moments, he misses the pens of his word. Unlike quills, they did not quite dry as quickly or need as much as decisiveness in thought.)

It is a bit silly to draft pre-existing stories, but it is a consequence of Kiran's nature.

It is especially silly to memorize and recite them to himself in his room, but Kiran had been embarrassed. After the excitement and adrenaline had worn off, thoughts—embarrassment—had plagued him, little pinpricks of his mistakes and places that he could have done better.

They are ancient things, lyrics and psalms spoken besides the winding Nile and to the setting sun, passing from tongue to tongue and in quill ink to printing press. They are murmurs of an older time—faded cloak, colored by each retelling and dusted with human passion.

But, in some sense, it does make him feel like one of the scribes of old from his world, recording antiquity by the light of a candle wick. He is both Pravuil and Goethe—both the chronicler and the interpreter.

Of course, that is merely an embellishment in and of itself, both a poison and a panacea. Like many writers, Kiran's feelings on his own writings exist in duality—Janus in motion, a turning coin. It was a paradox of both pride and shame, certainty in quality and doubt in ability and creativity.

On that particular matter, recreating each biblical tale is both a pleasure and a damnation.

It is easy enough to acknowledge his work (as he had certainly put the effort into it) as a derivative, but that is both a benefit and a hindrance. He has the basis, the ideas necessary alongside his own additions, but simply, it is not purely his. It is both a frustration and a relief, once again stemming from the paradox of the author—the desire to create, to make something fantastical and new, an impossible task by default.

One built from the successes of their predecessors in the art—the thoughts, the passions, the universal urge for creation, to play as God. Yet, one also wanted to distinguish their being entirely from them, to take the role of prideful Samael casting away his chains.

It is a foolish task of course. Every writer is influenced by something or someone or another, but it is a journey that every creator inevitably embarked on—the search for acknowledgement and individuality in barren world, plucked clean by their forefathers and the genius few.

It is an old frustration of Kiran. One wanted to be unique, but it was a certainty and necessity to be compared to the likes of Faust, Cicero, and a plethora of other literary immortals.

To be a writer was to accept the fate of comparison.

It was an inevitable sort of thing. A writer, decent or otherwise, often came into the craft because of a love for words, a need to give voice to the churning sea that existed only in their mind. By extension, one needed to understand not only their own self but also the selves of another.

Achilles, Jia Baoyu, Vasusena.

Whether one looked towards Wen Qu and his sixfold constellation or perhaps swan attended Saraswati for inspiration, the results remained the same—one needed to understand, to peer into the lifetimes of another, to speak.

To gaze towards the aloft stars and dance as the bear did, that was the fate of those who wrote.

* * *

The religion of his world remains a strained topic, but it is a bit easier as he continues.

Among them—joined just by the two and attended only by nosy spirits and the dancing dark—he shares the stories of Ruth and her devotion, of Azazel and the Grigori, and of the Red Sea's parting. He describes Ruth's piety, the strength of her heart.

He entertains with tragic arrogance of the Grigori and speaks of divine ordained liberation once more, of a faith he himself did not quite believe in. Each day, he brings a new set of tales.

(Naturally, he understands the nature of Apocrypha, the apparent falseness of it. But, it is useful enough to speak of anyway he thinks. At the very least, it illustrates the nature of the Church and of denominations.)

It is not a one-sided exchange of course, if it ever were (as Kiran quite liked Lucius's company). In return, Lucius speaks of Elibe, of his religion and of St. Elimine.

Of course, religion is not the only point of their conversations these days (as Kiran still spoke of other novelties from his world), but it dominates, nonetheless.

* * *

The game pieces for Virion's gift are marvelous, and Kiran finds himself admiring them as he makes his way back to his sleeping quarters. It is a bit foolish. He could bump into someone after all, Virion worst of all, but, Kiran is impatient.

Holding a piece—this one engraved with 仕—between his thumb and forefinger, he admires the rich green of the jade.

The jade carver, a spritely madam, had assured him of their quality and of her skill. Tucked into the corner of what could be considered as the jewelry district, the store had been on the small and plain side, no storefront display or discernable characteristics outside of two shishis standing guard outside the entrance.

Though, that did not stop the owner from crowding up the inside with her wares. The first time Kiran entered the store, he had expected nothing more than a few bobbles and perhaps another shishi statue. Instead, he found a store bustling with goods, both jade and otherwise.

From miniature jade turtles resting besides their fountain ponds to fenghuang perching gracefully on their hand-painted stands to the more mundane jade rabbits and cats, the store seemed more like a zoo than a store. Jade animals, both common and exotic, lined the glass-encased shelves and stood atop carved tables. To the side sat a display of porcelain goods ranging from flower adorned plates and bowls to porcelains figurines, frozen in eternity.

On both occasions, it had been with some difficulty that he had navigated to the crowded counter—smaller knickknacks surrounding a crystalline tree, its twin cranes resting peacefully underneath the translucent leaves and besides the reflective trunk.

Though, unsurprisingly, it had not taken the madam as long to find him or to navigate her own store. Additionally, it had not taken long to explain his request or for her to give an estimate.

Though it had surprised him when she had decided to give him a discount—a small "gift" as she had called it for the Order of Heroes, or rather their tactician.

Holding it now, Kiran is surprised, though no less grateful, for her discount. She certainly could have charged more for her work. The craftsmanship was superb, on both the jade and the accompanying storage box.

(He had asked her about her other wares naturally, about the porcelain and the wooden figurines and the cranes. Those certainly weren't jade. Thankfully, she had taken his question in good faith rather than as a slight or social faux pas. They were simply imports from some of the surrounding kingdoms, Nifl and the like. Though, there is a hint of pride as she elaborates on the crystal cranes; it was an heirloom, a piece made with jade from Embla, before the borders had closed and the war ignited.)

After rolling the stone inbetween his fingers for a few seconds, Kiran stops and carefully places the game piece back into its cedar chest, marveling at the set before finally closing the lid.

Looking up, Kiran feels a sense of astonishment. It is not because of the fact that he is not in front of his room. Rather, it is because of where he ended up.

Whether through contrived coincidence or some higher fate, he ends up in front of the chapel, its twin doors solemn as if guarding a tomb. The rose vines curl mockingly, botanical serpents.

Perhaps it is due to his recent conversations, but his feet have taken him here and stayed. Kiran finds it is a bit difficult to move, even with his own discomfort driving him. His feet are heavy—like moving through a mound of snow—and his heart races, pounds in its own unwelcomed song.

It is one thing to speak of religion as he does and another entirely to be confronted with it.

He stays there, hands clenched, eyes downcast, and box pressed tightly against his chest, mind urging and body unmoving.

Of course, like all things unpleasant, it always seem to worsen.

"What's wrong?"

He feels weight—a hand—on his shoulder, and it is a familiar voice. When he looks up, Marth's eyes are filled with concern. Behind him, the chapel doors swing shut with a heavy thump, omen heavy as any thunderstorm or flap of blackbird wings.

(He had not really taken Marth as a religious sort of man, but it wasn't like the stories detailed that sort of thing. Religion simply had had no place in his particular war. It simply had not been relevant.)

It takes a few seconds before Kiran replies.

(He does not particularly want Marth—or anyone really—to see him like this, frozen like a newborn lamb in the face of some unseen, primal terror. It is foolish and juvenile how it affects him, like an adolescent's fear of the dark. It is entirely too unbecoming of an adult, but it is something he cannot control.)

"It's nothing."

Unfortunately, Marth has never been one to settle, to backdown when it comes to matters such as this. He was the sort to poke and prod, work away at another's barriers like a carpenter whittling a toy horse for a child.

He is insistent, unbearably kind, and Kiran almost wants to confide in him, to trust in him. It is almost strange really.

Marth was the sort of man who radiated a particular charisma, a type of charm that could enthrall both the watching stars and the earth. If he asked, there was no doubt that the seas would part for him, that the winds would ease and cease, that the trees would shake—leaves quivering—ready to give up their bounty. If he needed, the night would part her cover happily, to let both the aurora and the winking moon shine upon him.

He was as Solomon was—before his disobedience—beloved.

But, as it were, there is a strangeness.

It was neither in his beauty nor was it in voice, neither a Narcissus nor an Orpheus. Naturally, he was handsome, as expected of a fairy tale-esque prince, but not astonishingly so. His features were elegant, but lacked the cool aloofness that often attracted people to authority. Instead, it is tinted by a slight softness, a product of both breeding and his own intrinsic nature.

But, kindness in itself could not draw others to one's self.

(As he thinks further on it, it is an oddity. Marth is a remarkable figure—the exemplary white knight in shining armor—but taken as he is, there is nothing that explained his seraphic charm. One wanted to follow him, to speak to him and be spoken to in return, and to be regarded as a companion.)

He was no Daji, beauty capable of rending apart morality and dynasties, nor was he Lord Henry, words serpent-given.

But as they speak, Kiran finds his resistance failing and dreadful eagerness set in. He wants to speak, to pierce the portrait of himself and to step off the world's stage.

Thankfully, whether due to time constraints or Kiran's steadfastness, Marth finally relents, instead settling to simply walk with Kiran to his room. It is a relief for Kiran, not ideal but much better than blathering his troubles, his failings to someone like Marth.

It is an awkward walk of sorts, too solemn perhaps and lacking in the usual conversation.

Kiran, unlike most days, finds solace when he reaches his sleeping quarters.

Though as Kiran unlocks the door and steps in, Marth speaks.

"If you ever need to speak to someone, I will always be here."

He does not need to turn around to know that concern lingers in Marth's eyes. That was simply the type of man he was, given as the sun rising and the rain falling.

His gratitude is perhaps too quiet, too hurried and too curt, but he hopes Marth doesn't mind all too much. He hopes it is not misconstrued.

After the door clicks into place, Kiran places the cedar chest on his desk, next to a stack of manuals and paperwork.

His room is neater than it had been last time.

* * *

He collects more gifts as the days pass—a white rabbit's foot necklace for Arthur, a pear flower hair pin for Kamui, and so forth.

(The peddler had been particularly persuasive. He is not quite sure if the man had been telling the truth about the rabbit's foot—the date and time of capture, the location, or even simply the type of cord for the necklace. But, he hopes the placebo effect will at the very least, stem Arthur's misfortune. )

Though, he still had not quite decided on Lucius's gift. Of course, he had settled for painting—a backup plan for if he failed. It is not ideal, not the gift he would like to give, but it would be worst, in his opinion, to come empty handed.

He takes to sketching out his ideas in the corners of his notes. He is not particularly adept at magic which disqualified the use of a camera tome. He does not particularly want to ask his colleagues (friends?) either.

There would simply be too many questions.

(Sadly, his skill with magic was still below average, rock-bottom. Robin had attempted to teach him in-between quips and lessons, but Kiran did not quite understand it nor did Robin's pointers help. He could not feel the crackle of electricity pooling into his fingertips, the gentle viciousness of gust forming a gale, or even simply the warm, protective hum of a feeding blaze.

Though, he wonders if Robin even understood his troubles. Robin and by extension, Reflet, were prodigies, tactical geniuses that appeared once an era. They could not understand mediocrity, the inability to advance.)

But while he had settled for painting, he had not quite decided on the scenario, the scene to portray.

There is simply too many places to consider, even discounting impractical areas and restricting to only Askr and its surrounding locales. Furthermore, weather and mood had to be considered. Winter, as beautiful as it stood, held a solemnity to it, a breadth of bittersweetness instinctively understood by and burdened to every being that drew breath.

Winter, as it was, was a time of lost in both nature and in cultural tradition—ingrained into the soul as deeply as any belief or hymn. It was something as old—older than—human existence. It was something that would remain as they returned to the earth and to dust, blanketing their resting plots as a mother would cover a sleeping child.

It was both a comfort and a terror.

As such, he needed to deliberate. He could not choose a place that embodied the best of winter's ideals, one only tinted, only on the verge of ripening, with the bloom of winter's kiss. He does not want his gift to spur sadness—fading friendship dyeing the frame, splotches of human melancholy and old memories, sorrow surging beneath the pigments.

It is difficult, especially with his standards, but he wants perfection.

* * *

Kiran takes to wandering Askr. It is not a particularly substantial difference to his routine (considering his normal duties), but it is something to note. He cuts a few minutes here and there from his normal activities and wanders.

(Anna often sent him on tasks around the castle and surrounding locale—a perk of her position as commander. If it wasn't Anna, it was Sharena. Though in Sharena's case, he is often dragged along on _her_ tasks and patrols and Hero check-ups rather than his own. He does not particularly mind; her joy and bounciness were contagious.)

He takes care to analyze the environment—the angles, the color composition, and the aesthetic of the location—nothing quite extravagant enough for what he wants.

He scopes out the view from atop of one of Askr castle's eastern towers, the view of the town's marketplace, among many others. Nothing fits his taste.

While the eastern tower held a magnificent view of the sunrise, the other particulars of the area were of no interest to him. It was simply too simplistic, rustic in nature. Beyond the town's boundary, it was simply snow-laden grasslands and frosted trees and the faraway mountains, figures imposing and unmovable.

Furthermore, painting the occasion would simply take too much time. If he were merely an artist with no other obligation, it would be a simple matter. But as it were, he held the position of the Order's tactician.

The same problem held when he examined the town. Everyone was in constant motion, a blur of daily life. No one held still long enough for him to remember their likeness. Of course, he could simply exaggerate, reimagine the area and the people with his own liberties, but that simply led to another old problem. Kiran simply wasn't the greatest at capturing human likeness.

(Of course, Anna had somewhat eased up on military duties as the Winter Festival approached, instead focusing efforts there. "Funding opportunities" as she called it. However, that did not mean Kiran was entirely free to wander as he pleased. That was merely another part of his job description; there were many things that required his attention, background tasks and errands and a constant influx of paperwork and reports. Daily routine did not cease, even for the holidays.)

He feels the suffocating pull of deadlines, but there is not much he can do but continue on.

* * *

From his remaining options, there are not too many places left to consider. For the most part, his area of search limited itself to the town and to its surrounding environment. He could not visit the other worlds either. There were no upcoming plans regarding any military drills or excursions, and a sudden visit so close to the holidays would simply inspire ill will in the soldiers.

He knows that one as one-hundred percent fact. He had asked Alfonse after all.

That simply left the surrounding areas as options as he had scoured the town, both in his search of gifts and in his search for the ideal scene.

* * *

There is a week and a half (or more accurately eleven days, twelve hours, and thirty-two minutes) left before the Winter Festival officially commences, and Askr is in a frenzy.

Like a corked and shaken wine bottle, excitement had steadily mounted since Anna's announcement last month. With more festive decorations appearing and the kitchen staff working tirelessly—savory aromas and spices abound—the holiday had become tangible for many. Rather than as a distant affair, one only thought of as an afterthought in the face of war, it had become something equally as important.

(Of course, there is something a bit more to that. There is a certain sense, nostalgic and longing, in the air, one hidden deeply in the undercurrent of festivities. Perhaps he has gotten better at noticing others' matters, but Kiran notices how certain Heroes draw together, more so than the usual affairs. In passing moments, Kiran sees how Seliph draws closer to Sigurd, almost timid, as if afraid that his father will turn to flame, and he will wake. In a similar vein, it becomes not uncommon to see particular groups enfold—Ephraim and Eirika and Lyon, Roy and Lilina and their respective fathers, and so forth.

It reminds him of his own family in all honesty, though he doubts that they care to remember him. Was it winter in his world? Were they simply celebrating Christmas without him? Or perhaps time had not passed? He does not particularly want to care, but the thoughts intrude as thoughts often want to do.)

Naturally, excitement is expected for a major festival, akin to a child's glee at traveling circuses and the holiday cheer of commercialism in his world, but it never blossomed until the world changed. Simply put, a holiday was not made until the appropriate attire was put up—the star-adorned and tinseled tree of December, the cheap candy-filled eggs and costumed rabbit of April, and so forth.

Perhaps it is merely human nature, but holidays needed to be more than just their symbolism—a pizazz that announced their meaning, perhaps distorted but visible.

Of course, Kiran feels the cheer, but it is overturned by an inner panic. He still had not decided on what to paint. Some would call it procrastination, but to Kiran, it simply meant that he had not tried hard enough.

Perhaps that was why he, on Árvakr and canvas and paints in hand (or rather, saddlebag), had wandered passed the town's borders today and farther than his usual outings. He had told Anna of his plans naturally. He wasn't foolish enough to venture out alone with no one aware of his location.

(Though, he does not doubt that Anna had sent along one of the ninjas to monitor him anyway. That was simply the sort of person she was. Furthermore, she had agreed to his plans rather easily, a bit unlike her normal self. Even with the numerous patrols about and Kiran's relatively close proximity to town, she wasn't one to take chances on these sorts of thing, especially with the border breach a few months back. It is not an ideal situation—he had wanted to travel alone and unknown—but there is not much other choice.)

Árvakr trots along the path easily enough. It is a well-used trail, worn from years of merchant wagons and countless horses and oxen. The trees pass by in an easy blur of speckled green and white, and the snow crunches under his horse's hooves alongside the thrum of his heart and the quiet trill of flitting fowls.

It is a quiet existence, one devoid of the usual chatter of soldiers, the flap of pterippi wings, and the creaking wheels of the wagons. In the silence of nature, it is easy enough to disconnect from the world—enter the waking dreams of his youth. Árvakr is a clever beast, one capable of following the winding road and alongside the sleepy snowdrops. He wouldn't have to worry about her wandering away from the path and into the unmarked wilderness.

His thoughts aren't much to write about. For the most part, it is the common sort of worries—worries of his profession, dinner plans, and plans for tomorrow, uncertain as it was. But simply, as minds oft do when given time to rest, they wander to certain subjects, to the id and to the ego.

His thoughts drift towards Lucius. Why simply, was he so intent on a perfect gift? He values the man's friendship and his character and his strength, but could he simply not purchase a book on botany in town? Perhaps paint Askr castle at daybreak? Why simply, was he so particular? He was a perfectionist at times of course, but this drive extended much further. He wants to impress the man, to dust his cheeks with the faint rouge of gratitude, and see the quirk of his rosy lips transform into a smile.

It is confounding. Even if the man was one of his first friends, it feels like he was trying too hard.

(Would that be an embarrassment if Lucius found out? Would he think it was too much? Kiran hopes not. He can feel the twinge of embarrassment, the beginning cracks on his heart, at that. Embarrassment was that sort of hammer.)

He does not have to wait much longer until he feels Árvakr snort and stop, jostling him slightly in his saddle.

Looking up, he admires his destination—the abandoned fortress.

* * *

Located to the west of town, it is an impressive place, even in its dilapidated state. Lacking the familiar banners of Askr, the stone walls are scratched and chipped—spiderweb fractures and entangled vines cascading like the work of a particularly industrious spider. On the entrance itself, the wood, despite the dust and scratches, appeared solid—a testament to the craftsmanship.

Leaving Árvakr by the entrance (her training and temperament meant that she likely wouldn't wander), Kiran, having procured his canvases and paints from one of the saddle bags, walks to the entrance and pulls. To his relief, the door is not bolted from the inside; Kiran did not really want to waste time looking for another entrance in.

The inside of the fortress is not too impressive sadly. For the most part, the previous occupants had cleared everything out. Anything else that might have been left had most likely been taken by scavengers, eager for scrap to sell. Askr wasn't a particularly poor kingdom, quite the opposite in fact, but that did not mean thievery ceased to exist.

Walking pass the upended and empty weapon racks and pass the greenery covered walls and towards the interior of the fortress, Kiran almost feels a chill. It has nothing to do with the weather (his cloak was well-made after all), and more to do with the location.

For Kiran, it is eerie, an example of nature's quickness to reclaim her domain and the fleeting nature of creativity and human invention. It had only been abandoned for fifty something odd years, less than a century and less than the years required for reparations.

* * *

In his curiosity, Kiran had asked Alfonse about the fortress once—its skeleton frame visible from Askr Castle. Would it not simply have been better to have both the castle and the fortress act as military bases? Alfonse had simply frowned, not angered but simply due to the tiresomeness of the question. It is one that is frequently asked, but the answer simply amounted to funding and the number of troops. It, in the Order's current state, was simply easier to maintain a lesser amount of bases but over a larger area—casting a larger net as one would say. They simply did not have the manpower or the necessary number of competent generals needed to spread their forces thinner, especially with Embla's integration of Heroes into their ranks. Furthermore, it required coin and resources to outfit more soldiers. They could send the soldiers out with training but minimal equipment, but that in itself was a folly.

It was a catch-22 of sorts. They needed more funding, but that couldn't happen without the Order demonstrating its necessity which in turn required more soldiers. But that in itself could not happen without funding. It would be easy enough for a pragmatist to send underequipped soldiers into the battlefield, but harder to withdraw them safely without casualties.

One could depend on skill alone, but survival depended on luck as well. One could be a genius of war—a modern Zhuge Liang—but fall to a greenhorn's lucky arrow or a change in winds.

Furthermore, the Order's necessity was further brought into question by the existence of Askr's actual army and navy. It had been a constant question at meetings before Kiran's arrival. Was it really necessary for Askr to maintain multiple military organizations or would it simply be easier to combine them—simplify the chain of command rather than act as a hydra would?

The army was certainly a more popular choice for romantic gentlemen, eager for the honors but less inclined towards frontline conflict. Because of numbers, it was simply easier to join the army and reap the benefits with a smaller chance of longtime deployment to the frontier—a lottery of lives.

Certainly, before Kiran's arrival, the Order was struggling with its justification for existence. And afterwards, after his summoning, rather than merely buoying, it began to swim. But that in itself was a longwinded explanation of political happenstance and headaches, something Alfonse was disinclined towards explaining.

And Kiran did not really want to bother him further on that, not with the way Alfonse's brow furrows in annoyance.

* * *

He walks pass the dusty doorways, pass the vacant animal nests, and up towards the second floor and to the third floor. The natural silence unnerves him. Since his arrival in Zenith, noise had surrounded him—the noise of children and animals, of camp preparations, and of human bustle. Here, in this respite of nature, there was simply nothing, only the company of the morning light peeking through the cracks and the sound of his paint pots clinking together as he walks, like harness bells on a Seelie's mount.

(Even with the mental reassurance that Saizo, or perhaps, Kagero, was most likely watching him, it does not help all too much. There is no voice to guide or levity to distract.)

In these sorts of situations, an active imagination is an enemy, but there is not much he can do about it.

Clutching his canvases closer to his chest, he walks a bit quicker, his imagination running wild. While it was still light outside, it did not help in the tight corridors of the fortress, not when the light created horrid shadows on the walls and cast everything into a gloomy shade.

Kiran certainly does not want to look behind himself either. The fear of seeing something or someone is palpable and in all honesty, he does not know which he fears more, a confirmation of his mind's fears or the mere sight of nothing, stone corridors and the flickering shadows.

He feels like Jonathan Harker traversing the count's castle, though, in his case, he has no assurance of a happy ending—the slaying of a monster, invented or otherwise.

Thankfully, to Kiran's immense relief, the next set of stairs he takes leads up to one of the castle watchtowers and to the outside.

Setting his tools down, he admires the view—a river, lightly crusted with ice and framed by vacant berry bushes and teeming with the dark shadows of swimming fish, snow-cloaked trees dotted with reds, blues, and browns, winter plumage, and the distant mountains of Nifl. Farther beyond the river and nearer towards the tree line, he faintly sees the silhouettes of white-tailed deer.

The heavens shine a deep cerulean blue, wispy white clouds surrounding a brilliant sun. Its rays bath the snow in a pleasant pale orange.

It is a picture worthy of being called sublime. Though, would it be enough?

He certainly did not have a choice in the matter. There is only a mere ten days left, and he had spent a quarter of today's morning traveling. Furthermore, he would have to start his trek back much earlier, a consequence of winter. The days were exceedingly short.

This wasn't even to mention the time his painting would need to dry.

Even if he was a procrastinator, he wasn't foolish enough to come back emptyhanded with so little time left. Even if it was a first draft of the painting, it would be enough at the very least. It would give him a basis to work with.

After opening his paint case and collecting a brush, Kiran centers his first canvas. It is small, though not exceedingly so. The choice of size had been a consequence of necessity; he certainly couldn't have fit his normal preference into Árvakr's saddle bags without accumulating damages.

Before beginning, Kiran studies the landscape once more. His current set of paints required mixing, quite unlike the convenience that he is used to in his previous world. He couldn't simply paint as he go, not with the necessity of mixing pigments and his current location.

Furthermore, he borrowed his current set from Libra. Paints and pigments were not difficult items to acquire in Askr. However, that did not mean they came with carrying cases. Rather, those were reserved for custom orders, requests sent to the leatherworker or the woodcarver rather than bought in a paints shop.

After a few moments, Kiran begins. He mixes the paints and takes care with the brushes. His first few brushstrokes are slow, less decisive than his normal rhythm and more meant to test. Due to his duties, he had not had as much time to practice. Though, as he goes along, his grip becomes firmer, more at ease.

Lacking an easel, it takes him longer for each idea and canvas section, having to stand and look over the watchtower walls rather than a quick glance to the side. Though it is understandable on why he couldn't bring one. He certainly couldn't have expected his horse to cart one around after all.

He first lays down a light blue, smothering and quick. The paints of Zenith are quicker to dry than the ones of his own world, though much less so than tempera. It was a strange concoction of sorts, an almost anachronism of his world and Zenith much like the camera tome. He is not quite sure what the pigments' materials are, but their results are a lovely shade.

He splotches blues—mixes as pale as a robin's egg to dark as a midnight on the stormy sea and everything between—crisp greys and tawny greens and warm oranges and lurid reds. He moves between larger brushes and smaller brushes and a painting knife, metal gleaming in the light.

From time to time, he brushes his dark hair from his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow with the edge of his coat's sleeve. Despite the coolness of the morning, he was still hot, a heat born from his task rather than one garnered from the sun.

His process would seem chaotic to some—the colors mesh and blend and splatter, splotches upon white linen. Though, Kiran is quite sure of what he wants, and eventually, it forms. He blends the rough edges, blends blues into off-whites and into orange and browns. He works on the lighting, the perceived movement of the prancing deer and the dipping birds, and on conveying the moment he seeks.

For what seems like hours, he mixes and blends and considers until simply, it is done, simple as that.

* * *

The more he stares at it, the more he dislikes it.

The colors should be different. The strokes should be different. The lighting should be different.

There is a near-immeasurable amount of mistakes to be found. They should be found.

There are nine days left.

* * *

Today, he is in the castle gardens—paint case held in hand and embarrassingly lost in the hedge maze.

The garden is not one of his normal haunts, and it shows in his ineptitude at navigating the maze.

(Outside of his visit with Lucius, he had not had the time to visit and admire the greenery. On most occasions, the most he had there was a few minutes, minutes spent on the way towards his next destination or in the search of a particular soldier or Hero. There had been no real time to admire the world.)

Normally, he wouldn't deign to appear here, not for lack of interest but for time. However, he needs to return Libra's case.

Naturally, returning the case is a priority, and before his current situation, he had been heading towards Libra's room, intent on the endeavor. Though, passing by a window, he, by chance, had glanced outside and towards the gardens.

Libra's room is on one of the lower floors, and thus, it is unsurprisingly easier to see the garden in detail Rather than as distant blurs and blobs of color, he had been able to see it as it is—browns and greens dusted in white like frosting on a pastry, the ruddy red of the gardener's storehouse, and the pale crystal of the mirror pond.

Ordinarily he would simply have admired the view and continued on, but, standing in the center of one of the hedge maze's rest areas had been Libra.

Perhaps it had been foolish of him (he could have simply waited for Libra to return or even given the case back after dinner after all), but he had gone out.

Now, his decision had become a bit of a regret. Of course, he knows that someone will find him eventually, but it is the loss of time that bothers him.

He continues through the maze, taking lefts and rights and center paths wholly at random. Despite the expansive size of the maze, the foliage walls remained unchanging and pristine, lacking in markers—simultaneously an annoyance and evidence of the gardener's skill.

(Kiran hopes that he encounters someone soon. Perhaps Nowi or Fae? They often frequented the gardens and the hedge maze. He only hopes that they had not deigned to take a day out to town today.)

Thankfully after what feels like hours of wandering in circles, whether due to divine intervention or mere luck, the next rest area he enters is not devoid of people. Rather, he finds Libra there.

Though he had not expected the other man to be painting, easel standing and canvas centered. Perhaps Libra had set up his work while he had wasted time wandering the maze?

There wasn't much to see in this section of the hedge maze, however. The flowers are slumbering, tucked beneath a blanket of snow, and the hedges tower, guards to the Sleeping Beauty.

Overhead, the sky rings a clear blue, clouds and birds absent. The geese had long migrated—white wings sailing through the celestial sea and the November rains had long abided to winter. The only one that remained was the sun, the constant companion.

Despite the chunkiness of his steps, only slightly deadened by the crisp snow, and the clinking of the case's contents, Libra is unaware of his presence, too engrossed in his work.

It almost feels like a waste to interrupt Libra's concentration, but Kiran couldn't simply wait there for hours on end.

He did not quite want to be a voyeur either. His tendencies did not extend there.

(Though, he is a bit curious about Libra's painting. As previously stated, there is not much to paint in this area, nothing but hedges and dormant flora. He couldn't sneak a peek either, not with how the canvas faces away from him.)

There is a hint of surprise in Libra's eyes when he clears his throat, but it fades quickly. It is a bit awkward in all actuality, but Kiran is not all too sure on how else to catch his attention.

Libra waves him over, paint brush still held neatly between his fingers.

"My apologies, Kiran."

Kiran gives a hum of acknowledgement before extending the case. It would be best to return the case as soon as possible to avoid the temptation of committing a social faux pas. It would be embarrassing, he thinks, if he is caught staring.

Though, Libra is quite keen all things considered. He motions for Kiran to place the case near the hedge, next to another paint case and a wooden box—a wet canvas carrier—and away from any potential accidents, and then once more towards the spot next to him.

Kiran's cheeks redden slightly, but he complies. Was he really that obvious?

(He could blame the redness on the chill of the morning air. There is a cool breeze shuffling the leaves, like the mischievous hand of a sibling ruffling his younger brother's hair.)

To his surprise, the painting is of Robin, head tilted and soft cheek pressed against his arm and rosy lips quirked into a half-smile. Long, fine lashes frame affectionate eyes, captivating like midnight's cordial. His pale hair falls gently, framing his face like willow floss. Upon his hair and the table rests cherry blossoms, petals open and nipped from the branch like a prince carrying his stolen bride—most likely flown in by evening's teasing draft. A warm glow encapsulates him—twilight's final rays and the waking moon peeking at Venus through the window like a secret suitor.

A few stray papers—reports—line the desk, kept from chasing their lover by the weight of well-read and hastily dogeared tomes. A quill pen, ink droplets dripping from its tip and onto the pages, lies carelessly strewn, perhaps discarded in the portrait figure's lethargy. Its companion, the glass ink pot, sits on its lonesome in the corner of the desk.

The lighting of the painting—heightened by the depth of color inherent to oil paints—creates a striking picture. Dark shadows and moon-aided candlelight accentuate the curve of his cheeks, the half-lidded drowsiness, the serene allure of his smile.

It is intimate, entirely too intimate.

It is a sort of Robin—any individual really—that he is entirely unused to seeing, peaceful and lacking in humankind's natural inclinations and and free from the demands of the world.

It is the sort of image that spurs melancholy, a yearning embedded within the recesses of his humming, thrumming heart— like the chords of a master's cello.

"How does it look? Are there any areas that need improvement?"

Libra's smooth voice stirs him from his thoughts.

Kiran shakes his head. There is not much he can see wrong with it.

Libra looks satisfied at that.

"Good. It is a gift after all."

It is short, but not unkind. There is no need to guess who the recipient is either. The subject and intimacy of the portrait makes it clear enough.

He does not think Libra has much more to say. He is a quiet sort of fellow, quiet but not unkind. He does not think there is much more to say either.

Kiran almost bids Libra goodbye when the other man speaks, surprising him.

"How is your painting coming along?"

Hiding his surprise, Kiran replies.

"Good! I think anyway. There's places I'm not really satisfied with though."

Or more accurately, he is not satisfied with it at all.

"Oh? On what areas?" There is no hint of maliciousness or boastfulness from his statement, merely curiosity. "If you wish, I can, perhaps, give you a few pointers, though you will have to describe to me what you dislike. Sadly, I am not available for more."

As an explanation, he makes a motion with his free hand towards the easel and towards the paint cases.

Perhaps it is because Libra bears a resemblance to Lucius, but Kiran does not find it too difficult to talk to him. In any case, he could be vague enough anyway. It is not like his work is a portrait of someone; it was merely a landscape.

(Libra bears a resemblance to Lucius, and that is simply a truth. Even their professions are similar, but there are key differences. Libra's eyes are narrower, lacking in the almost doe-like quality that Lucius's held, and his shoulders are broader. It is not a statement meant to affront, but Lucius, in particular, held a certain quality to him, an air that made one want to share their worries, to converse with him as equals—kings to kings, peasants to peasants, beast to beast, being to being.)

"The strokes are wrong, and the colors are wrong. I mean, they're close enough to what I saw, but something feels off. It's not vibrant enough."

He goes on, highlighting each issue he finds and his grievances with them. Libra, to his credit, listens to his rambling, nodding and contemplative.

When Kiran finishes, Libra speaks.

"As artists—creators as whole really—we are prone to overanalyzing our work, whether justified or otherwise."

Kiran nods at that. It is an obvious sort of statement, one that every craftsman knew personally, but he does not interrupt.

"While I do believe that particular dilemma is responsible for your current plight, it is not the only culprit."

Kiran's interest perks at that.

"As creators, we yearn for acknowledgement—for approval—but contradictorily, we dread it, or rather, we fear the rejection that often comes with it."

Libra continues, "We place our emotions, our innermost hopes and fears, into our art, and we want others to understand it—or rather, us."

"However,"—he touches up a spot on the portrait, having noticed some small blemish—"that is an impossible task."

"Nevertheless, we must persevere, no matter the state of our feelings or reservations on it. It is our inherent responsibility as artists."

He dabs at another spot with his brush before speaking.

"As with every craft, there is a certain amount of interpretation that goes into the viewing of our creations. Undoubtedly, you are aware of that."

Kiran nods once again. These are topics that he is keenly aware of, perhaps not Libra's view on emotions, but everything else had familiar concepts.

He continues, "Ultimately, if one wants to be an artist, we must unveil our hearts to others and accept their final judgement."

He pauses, and Kiran almost speaks then, until Libra continues, having collected his thoughts.

"However, we, as both the artist and the viewer, must also come to an agreement—we must coexist and strive towards an understanding, no matter how impossible it seems. To do so, we must cultivate a bond, built on earned trust and failed attempts. Even if one succumbs to the fear of rejection and hopelessness, we must persist no matter how our minds, our bodies, refuse to do so."

Perhaps there is a hint of confusion in Kiran's eyes, but Libra continues anyway.

"Even if we can never truly understand each other, we must continue to strive, with our best efforts, to understand. That is simply the duty of an artist."

"No matter your fears, continue onwards towards and pass uncertainty. That is how we grow as individuals."

Libra continues on for a bit, taking to color theory and the differences in strokes and other similar sorts of topics. Some of it is familiar while others are foreign in nature to Kiran. It is enlightening in all honesty.

Afterwards, he thanks Libra and bids him a farewell.

* * *

Returning his room after dinner, Kiran, with Libra's advice and his own set of paints, works on touching up his painting. He couldn't change any major details without scrapping the project entirely, but it does come out a bit better, he thinks.

At the very least, he is somewhat more satisfied with it.

However, Libra's painting lingers on his mind, not because of its subject—he certainly had enough of Robin's flair from their tactical meetings and tutoring sessions—but because of the sentiments it conveyed.

The portrait had been beautiful of course, but it is the emotion that truly interests him. It radiated both the charm of the subject and Libra's intentions, his feelings.

His thoughts wander then. Could he paint Lucius in a similar manner? In a way that conveys the gratitude he feels towards the man? He certainly doesn't mean in the intimate manner of Libra's work of course, but he certainly feels drawn to the idea of painting him.

(He is still not quite good with human subjects, but perhaps, he could try, as Libra had urged. The spare materials are still stored under his bed after all.)

He loiters, shuffling the idea from thought to thought, worry to worry.

Ultimately, he pulls the spare canvases out and the easel.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, he would not be walking towards the kitchens for a midnight snack, but his current circumstances are different. Painting had made him peckish, despite his hearty dinner.

(He had worked on his palette first of course—mixing pigments and considering the tone he wants to convey. It wouldn't do to waste or scrap too many canvases.)

Outside of perhaps a kitchenhand (or Gaius on a late-night sweets robbery), he had not expected to meet anyone in kitchen.

Certainly not Caeda. By her expression, she had not expected him either. In front of her, laid bare, is a set of earthen cookware and an assortment of ingredients—sweet onion, half sliced and bulky, orange carrot mixed with green onion and the earthy brown of potatoes and the tangy smell of cut lemon.

"Oh, summoner! I didn't expect you here." Her voice is not all too sheepish despite her words. Instead, she seems quite at home in the kitchen.

His face must have held a hint of curiosity because Caeda continues.

"I am practicing my culinary skills. The Winter Festival is fast approaching, and I want to prepare a meal for Marth."

Kiran is keenly aware of Caeda's… culinary skill, but he does not comment. It would be all too rude to do so.

Though, perhaps due to his expression, Caeda laughs lightly, and Kiran blushes.

"Do not worry, Summoner. You have not offended me. I am aware of my shortcomings. That is why I am here at this hour after all."

She smiles at him reassuringly before frowning slightly.

"Though I do wish I was not the only one here right now. Back in my own world, there was someone who often accompanied me on these sorts of learning endeavors. He was not quite good at domesticity, despite, or perhaps because of, all of his other merits."

Kiran is a bit curious at that, and Caeda notices.

"You have not summoned him yet, though if you are curious, ask Michalis about him. He will certainly know."

There is a bit of playfulness in that—a small jest. Kiran does not probe further, but he makes a note to bother Michalis about it later.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure why he offers to stay and practice with her. It is late after all, and he has his own worries to attend to, but he does.

There is a hint of surprise on Caeda's face, but she accepts his company.

At first, they work in silence—slicing onions, Caeda's previous focus before Kiran interrupted. It is a bit unnerving to work at midnight in all honestly, his imagination not all too helped by his previous visit to the abandoned fortress.

So, he speaks.

"Why cooking?" He fumbles then before clarifying. "I mean, why this and not something else? There's a lot of other options for gifts."

Caeda hums then, contemplative and hands stilled from their tasks. For a few moments, they stand in silence. Kiran almost retracts his question. Perhaps he had offended her? However, Caeda replies then.

"I want to show him my feelings in earnest."

It is a simple answer, but one that surprises Kiran, nevertheless.

"Cooking is an exceedingly human act. It is something unique to us. We depend on it to live and to thrive. No other species cooks—no spices, no fricassee, no steaming, nothing. None of them cook as we do."

She slices her half of the onion then. It is clumsy—inexperienced—but still, it is an attempt.

"And to my belief, it is important to share a meal with your loved ones—wife to husband, parent to child, friend to friend. It is an exceptionally significant and entirely human act. It is one of the proofs of a human being, the act of cooking and sharing a meal."

She frowns slightly at her onion slices. In all honestly, they were a bit pathetic to look at—some thin and soggy and others too large and overly fragrant.

Though, Kiran couldn't quite say his onions are any better. He knew how to cook for himself, but presentation had never been a huge concern for him. As long as it was edible, he ate. His mother had not cooked for him in a long while.

"No matter the meal, I believe one can convey their feelings, their joys and sorrows and memories, to another through cooking."

It is a romantic sort of answer but certainly something to ponder. Though, Kiran does not quite expect her question him next.

"It is the same with artists and writers, yes? We want to convey our feelings to those who would care to listen."

After his initial shock fades, Kiran nods affirmatively.

There is a hint of approval in Caeda's gaze as she continues speaking, not quite done.

"Good. While my cooking is not"—she pauses for a moment then, a hint of frustration evident in her next word—"ideal. I want to improve for both myself and for others—for him in particular. I want him to understand my feelings, not just in words but in my actions."

Kiran nods then. It is an understandable desire.

The air afterwards is not quite heavy, but it is not quite suitable for most conversations either.

How did one speak after hearing something like that?

The continue on in primarily silence—hints of small talk and a few tips passed here and there.

After they finish and clean, Caeda thanks him and bids him a warm goodnight.

* * *

Lying in his bed that night (or rather early morning), Kiran could not quite sleep.

Both Libra's and Caeda's words resound in his head which would be a matter in and of itself, but rather, he is reminded of his mother. In particular, Caeda's words had stirred an old memory, a recollection of his childhood.

As a child, his mother had often cooked—soups, stuffed tortellini, anything that caught her interest—with him nearby, lulled into complacency by a jaunty off-tune hum.

She would often give him a small plastic knife—not unlike the ones found in a cafeteria—and a bit of fruit or vegetable to cut.

On some occasions, when she was in a fanciful mood, she would let him pick what to prepare from her cookbook.

It had been an old thing—a heirloom from her father and his mother before him and so forth. The pages had been handstitched and the spine handbound. Some recipes even had an accompanying sketch, though faded and worn from time, of their products.

(She had other cookbooks of course, but that one in particular had been the most memorable for him.)

When he had been younger, not yet old enough to read nor to try every single recipe, he often picked merely based on images.

(To his mother's bemusement at that time, he had frequently decided on dishes that his father disliked. She cooked them anyway of course. As she had said, before they had ceased contact, his father needed to eat more vegetables anyway.)

When he had grown older, he chose based on his own preferences—apple cobbler or banana walnut bread for dessert, chicken casserole with rice, colcannon potatoes, and so forth.

Though, his most favored and most memorable dish of his mother's had been beef bourguignon. It had been a specialty dish for his mother, one that she reserved for wintertime. It had been an earnest, filling sort of meal, one that radiated love and warmth—perfect for winter. Even now, at the thought of it, he can feel the chill of his room abide, Jack Frost ceasing in his playful nipping.

He remembers how he would clamber up the varnished stool to stand next to his mother and watch her prepare the ingredients for the dish. On some occasions, she had let him, with her careful supervision, chop the carrots with her chef's knife. On most occasions, however, he had often been saddled with the duty of peeling the pearl onions. He had not minded all too much at the time though. He had simply been content to help.

It is a happy, complicated sort of memory, faded and worn as a threadbare sweater.

Nonetheless, he had watched her make it for years as a child. It is a recipe—a memory—he knew by heart even if his hands had all but forgotten it.

His dreams that night are troubled by a child's laughter and an old familiar tune.

* * *

There are seven days left and today, he is haunted by memories and what-ifs.

In particular, Caeda's thoughts on cooking nibble at him. It had been easy enough to ignore last night when his mind had been tinted with the sedative of sleep.

But now, the idea nips at him.

He thinks his painting, the one created at the fortress, has improved with Libra's advice, but simply, it still is not enough.

(The portrait—if it could be called that in its current blank state—lies hidden underneath his bed. He is not foolish enough to think that it would be finished in seven days, but he works at it bit by bit.)

He wants to do something more. He wants to cook for Lucius.

He wouldn't discard the painting of course, but he wants to do something more. He wants to share a memory with him rather than simply gift a glimpse into his thoughts.

It is romantic conjecture conjured by Caeda's words, but they are something at the very least.

Though, he is not skilled at cooking or even simply practiced at it, unlike with painting and writing.

He wants to try anyway, and that is what scares him.

* * *

He visits Lucius later in the day. On this particular occasion, despite his worries, it is particularly pleasant to see him. They had not had much time to speak, both because of duties and because of the inherent busyness of the holiday season.

His heart trills at the sight of Lucius's smile, and he feels light—memories cast away like old fishing wire.

Their conversation goes as it always does, well and somewhat aimless, moving topic to topic and voices intermingled.

It is a sweet sort of conversation—each word melting on his tongue like a chocolate square.

However, as their conversation draws to an end, Kiran feels a sort of dread as he remembers the secondary reason for his social call.

Would he see it as too forward? Too assuming? Perhaps, he would simply decline due to a lack of time or interest.

He fidgets slightly, boiling in his discomfort, but he manages the question right as Lucius finishes his explanation on nightshade.

His voice is hurried, cracking slightly in its quickness, and his eyes are lowered, afraid of looking.

It is an all-around embarrassment, one that could not be helped.

It makes his heart burst—a kaleidoscope's twirling lens—when Lucius agrees.

* * *

Day six and day five pass in a blur and onto day four, and Askr castle's joy is contagious.

Though, Kiran's panic is less so. After his initial joy, the panic sets in.

His idea to cook is, by all accounts, a last-minute affair, one that lacked coherent planning.

What would he cook (or rather _how _would he cook)? What would he pair with the dish? The side dishes?

Furthermore, where would he hold this affair?

(He had simply told Lucius that it was a surprise location, one that he would reveal as the date drew closer. In hindsight, that was a foolish decision, one that created unreasonable expectations.)

At the very least, Caeda has a midnight peer in her self-taught culinary lessons now. That was something.

(Though, it is not like Kiran could skip out, not without turning his slapdash, stupid, _stupid_ plan into an even bigger farce. There is a huge difference between words and actions.)

He is troubled.

* * *

Eventually, he decides on beef bourguignon as the main dish. He remembers it of course. That had not been the problem in his decision making. Rather, it reminds him too much of his mother.

(He does not quite want to remember her nor does he want to remember his father. He does not want to remember his previous life in all honesty. Not Mrs. Davis, not his parents, not even his home address nor the name of his town. He wants to forget everything before, and exist as he is now. He wants to be Peter not Susan. It is a childish sort of want, but it is _his_.)

But there is not much other choice. The other dishes he knows are not all too suited for such an occasion. He certainly couldn't cook a common chicken casserole and bring it as a main dish. Perhaps, it is simply a leftover of his previous world's sensibilities, but even the thought feels shameful.

And some other dishes, he simply couldn't make. He is not shameless enough to blame Lucius for his walnut allergy.

(Thankfully, it is not nothing all too serious—a mere swelling and itchiness. Naturally, he wouldn't subject Lucius to anything of that sort; he is not callous enough. Furthermore, he feels that such an intentional incident would bring Raven to his bedroom door, an unfavorable affair for everyone involved.)

That left beef bourguignon as the only option. It is something he is familiar with, and it held a more elegant air—it is a dish he would expect to find at a more high-end restaurant.

However, he still does need to find other dishes to pair with it.

* * *

If anyone ever cared to ask, Kiran did not intentionally visit Virion every time he came upon a problem.

It is simply the fact that the man is cleverer and more observant than he ought to be.

Perhaps, he stirred too loudly? For whatever reason, tea always seemed to be the catalyst to their conversations.

(Of course, it—Virion's ability to notice tells and problems—comes with the territory of being the Duke of Rosanne, but Kiran wouldn't mention that.)

Whatever the reason, Virion had pestered him until he revealed his troubles.

It had been a brief, idle mention of beef bourguignon, and Virion had perked up. From there, it had simply devolved (or rather, expanded).

It went from wine to wine (half of whom had names Kiran couldn't even pronounce without biting his tongue), dish to dish, and even which farm from whichever place produced the best beef.

Though, it is not quite as useful when a majority of them only existed on Ylisse. It is not a fact that stops Virion, however. Rather, it merely incentivizes him.

"Perhaps a wine from Nifl then? I am told their red wine is quite excellent, and it pairs nicely with beef."

Kiran could only nod, confused. He is not well-versed in liquor or their optimal pairings. Despite what his small-town roots would imply, he is not a heavy drinker, having never really held a keen interest in alcohol. He was curious of course, as his nature, but it was never anything more than a passing curiosity, borne out tidbits and rumors he would catch as he walked to his classes.

Even as a teen, he had not felt an urge to drink like his peers did. This was only further compounded by his lack of friends—no social drinking as it were.

When he had finally taken a sip of beer at twenty-one, he had simply spat it out. He had not enjoyed the flavor—a bitter wateriness that coated his throat and stuck to the back of it long after he had rinsed with water. Afterwards, he had simply lost all interest in liquor.

On the meat itself, they eventually decide on a local butcher rather than a one of the surrounding farms. In part, it is because of the practicality.

Undried beef, or any type of fresh meat really, is an expensive ingredient in winter. Most farmers only slaughtered their older cows—lactation having ceased—and even then, that was a late autumn affair, not one scheduled for the winter solstice. Furthermore, beef is a rarity in comparison to fowl, game, and pork; it took more land to raise a cow after all. Most local farmers, having only two or three or perhaps even four, would be unwilling to part with their calves and cattle. The price would be atrocious and furthermore, they did not really need a whole cow.

In comparison, a butcher, while still expensive, offered a finer selection of cuts. Due to the presence and demand of the nobility in town, the local butchers could afford to stock a variety of cuts.

Virion continues, moving onwards to side dishes. Their options are somewhat limited because of Kiran's (regrettably) poor culinary skills and the current season itself. Every ingredient would have to be procured from the storehouses or, if worst comes to worst, from one of the high-end (astronomically expensive) importers in-town.

(Not many people would take the financial risk of importing goods in wintertime. Even with Askr's prosperity, bandits, are a perpetual and universal problem. Alongside them, wolves and wyvern, driven by wintertime scarcity, are another concern. It isnot uncommon to hear of some unlucky, distant relative wandering too far from home to hunt and dying in the stead of the beast.

This is not even to mention the landscape itself. If one failed to predict the weather and failed to secure shelter (as is common in these sorts of situations), it often meant a slow death as their organs failed and their fingers froze black—unable to clench around a life-saving flint. Approaching Askr from the north also meant navigating the mountains. While the existence of wyverns mitigated some of the dangers of avalanches, they could only carry so much in comparison to their earthbound counterparts. There did not exist a floating wagon after all. This often relegated these wyvern carriers to specialty orders and a large pay sum.

However, as long as demand, disparity, and desire exist, someone would take the job in spite of the dangers, financial or otherwise. Askr's nobility and the town's winter traders existed as proof.)

Eventually, they settle on roasted red potatoes—spiced with thyme, rosemary, and garlic. It was a simple dish, but no less delicious when paired with beef bourguignon as a side. That is Virion's claim anyway.

The dessert is simple enough to decide on—dried apple pie. Kiran thinks he can work with that; he had watched his mother make apple pie countless times.

Additionally, Virion even helps him decide on a location—one of the watchtowers.

Under normal circumstances, neither Virion nor Kiran would consider the watchtower as a potential site for dinner. The nightly patrols and watchtowers are an integral part of the castle's defenses. However, due to the Winter Festival, a majority of the patrols would be off-duty—enjoying the festivities and spending time with loved ones.

(He is not quite sure if Anna would agree to their plans; he still had to ask her of course. It is still a watchtower after all.)

Despite his initial reluctance, Kiran is glad for Virion's advice. It helps to calm his mind and disperse the panic.

Though, he could do without the man's teasing remarks. Today, they are especially frequent, and he doesn't quite understand what the implications are. As a result, they are particularly obnoxious.

As he leaves, he does not quite understand what Virion implies with that wink either.

* * *

Surprisingly, Anna agrees. Perhaps it is simply an aftereffect of the holidays, but there is not much resistance from her or even an off-color joke about charging him for a "premier" dining spot.

It is a bit unlike her in all honesty.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure how he is going to transport a table and a few chairs to the area, let alone the food. His strength had not improved all too much since his arrival in Zenith, and the storage room is quite a ways off from the designated spot.

He had asked Virion about that particular hitch in the plan, and the man had simply waved off his concern and told him not to worry. He would take care of it.

(Kiran is reluctant to have Virion help him this much. He had wanted to do this himself after all, but there is not many other options. It would be more embarrassing to cancel. The most he could do is decline Virion's offer to help him cook. At the very least, Kiran could do that himself. That was the point of this after all.)

He sighs, breath audible and visible in the cold.

There is not much he can do but practice now. He had already informed Lucius of the time and location after all.

* * *

Like the changing of seasons, day three and two pass quickly, and the clock ticks to judgement day.

Kiran feels his heart thrum, beating tell-tale in its anxiety.

The kitchen had been bustling, in the throes of dinner preparations and almost ready for serving, when he had entered. He had expected them—and the busyness—of course, and they to him. Anna had sent an advance notice of his presence after all.

However, he had not expected the sheer number of kitchen staff. Chefs balancing trays and pans and pots, kitchenhands stacking finished dishes—spiced cakes and stuffed pastries, whole roasts, and a plethora of other delicacies—onto food carts, and washers furiously scrubbing at dirtied cookware. Further towards the back of the kitchen, he sees a few kitchen girls sitting at a basket-lined table—peeling vegetables and fruits most likely.

It makes him all the more nervous in all honesty. He does not quite know where to start. It is one thing when it was simply him and Caeda and another to be working in these conditions.

He does not have to wait long, however, until one of the cooks notices his presence and barks out an order. Kiran couldn't quite hear in the bustle and shuffle of the kitchen, but apparently everyone could.

One of the kitchen girls rushes out from the bustle and grabs his hand, dragging him towards the back.

The kitchen is not a place for long courtesies, and he understands that. Nevertheless, her frankness surprises him.

Stopping near the back, he sees his ingredients stacked atop a table—chunk roast and pork still neatly tucked in their packages, unpeeled pearl onions in basket, spices and wine bottles set aside, and so forth.

She speaks, and Kiran strains to hear her.

"We left your ingredients here"—she points towards the table, emphasizing—"and you're free to use anything here. I have to go and set the tables, but I'll be back later to help you carry everything up."

Without waiting for Kiran's reply, she leaves.

With that, Kiran takes a breath, steadying himself, and begins.

* * *

Kiran slices the chunk roast into cubes. Despite his best efforts, they are unevenly proportioned, a sign of an amateur, though not too unappealing compared to his previous attempts.

(He is reminded of his mother then. Everything she cooked; she had done to perfection. Her onions had always been perfectly sliced, chef's knife rocking at a blazing speed. Her glazes were never uneven nor was her frosting. When she cut beef for bourguignon, everything seemed measured to a tee, as if she had taken a ruler to it. She never did of course. He had watched her after all. Everything she did, she had done with the grace of practice.)

Adding them to a bowl, he seasons them with salt and pepper, coating the cubes in what he hopes is an even layer.

He parboils the pork—sliced into strips—and transfer it to an oiled pan. Each step reminds him of someone else, someplace else, but he continues anyway.

Despite the bustle of the kitchen behind him and the ruckus in the dinner hall, it is a quiet sort of place.

* * *

Taking out the pie and setting it onto the counter, Kiran feels a sense of relief at its appearance. The crust is intact—not caved in or even cracked.

And true to her world, the kitchen girl returns, pushing an empty cart.

With two sets of hands, it doesn't take much time to stack everything and go.

* * *

Outside of her normal duties, the kitchen girl is a chatterbox.

Animatedly, she asks him about various topics—the heroes, the Order's excursions, and even about simple gossip and rumors among the staff.

(He is not quite sure what to tell her when she asks Deeprealms. He certainly did not understand them either when he read the tome. Neither Corrin's nor Kamui's explanations helped either. If anything, it made everything even more convoluted.)

They stop by his room on the way to the watchtower. It is a bit of a detour, but Kiran has to retrieve his landscape painting.

He had not forgotten about it in his haste to plan a meal. In fact, he had even boxed and wrapped it.

He still is not quite satisfied with it, but he wants to convey his feelings. While the meal held the same purpose, Kiran is keenly aware of how his artistic abilities compare with his culinary skills. Even a mediocre painting would inspire more amazement than his cooking.

Reaching the watchtower, Kiran is a bit surprised to find a table—already adorned—and a set of chairs. He remembers Virion's assurance of course, but still, it is a bit of a marvel on how he got it through the doorway.

Noticing his gaze, the kitchen girl explains, "The cleaning staff helped bring it up. The doorway was a bit of a mess, but they eventually figured something out."

Kiran nods at her explanation before he begins plating.

There is not much time left.

* * *

With a quick shout of "Good luck!" and an assurance that she would be back later to clean up, she leaves him alone and sitting, the squeak of the cart's wheels a smouldering memory.

Alone in the dark and underneath the ascending moon, Kiran fidgets, his worries growing—as if, the King in Yellow impending. The aromas of the food waft—heat visible in the smoke and rising, akin to a veneration of Artemis.

His mind swirls with doubts and fears, each thought like a drop of cream in a full coffee cup.

Did Lucius forget? Perhaps he changed his mind, having already eaten his fill at dinner? He had chosen a time after the main course after all—to let Lucius mingle with his own network of loved ones. Was he wandering town now, enjoying the nightly festivities? That certainly was the plan for a majority of the population.

It is stressful. Hands resting atop of his painting, his fingers tap against the clothed wood. Like the tapping of typewriter keys, it breaks the monotony of the night—throat sore from the chill and voice quiet.

Thus, Kiran is startled when he hears a door open. His imagination—once distracted by his worries— involuntarily flares, unreasonable in its expectations, before petering out into charcoal.

Thankfully, to his immense relief and pleasure, it is Lucius. Immediately, Kiran's eyes are drawn to the parcel, wrapped in white fabric and tied with a red ribbon, in his hands.

He almost wishes to ask about it, but stems his curiosity out of a fear of impoliteness.

Lucius's smile is warm, tinged with sheepishness, as walks over and stands by Kiran's chair.

"My apologies, Kiran. I had to retrieve something from my room, and it took longer than expected."

"It's fine. I'm just glad you're here." Kiran hopes his smile is reassuring, not too toothy and not too wide.

(It is startling how much taller Lucius is when he is not sitting, when their normal situation is reversed. It is the sort of thing that he doesn't really mind.)

He expects Lucius to take his seat then, but to his surprise, Lucius extends the parcel, expectant.

"For you."

It is a short phrase, but the words carry meaning—a hint of Christmas Rose.

"T-thank you." It is a dimwit's response, but Kiran finds his vocabulary lacking in this moment—flowery embellishments, soliloquys of gratitude, and complex rumination dissipated.

The most he can do is extend his own gift, elbow bumping with a thump into the table in the process. Lucius's gift takes its place on his lap.

(Thankfully, it is only a light bump, nothing forceful enough to knock over a dish or bottle.)

He does not quite know what to make of Lucius's expression. Or rather, he couldn't, not with his head lowered, hiding the flush of frost's kiss. He feels the weight leave his hands, and hears the rustle of ribbon slipping and fabric unfolding.

He expects a polite sort of thankfulness—the obligatory sort of gratitude one gave for a mediocre gift. Instead, he feels a warmth on his back before he is pulled forward gently into an embrace.

It startles him, warms him like springtide's first dawn.

Soft breath tickles his ear, and he simply hears.

"Thank you."

* * *

Lucius's gift is no less thoughtful than the man himself.

It is a botanical book, leather-bound and pages written in Lucius's delicate script. That, by itself, would charm him, but there is so much more to it.

Next to each page—or section rather—is a hand-drawn illustration of the section's plant, its parts marked once more in Lucius's curving script.

It is a pretty, practical thing, one that had taken months to compose.

There is not much more he can do besides thank Lucius once more.

* * *

Despite the night's beginnings, dinner begins as many of their affairs do, with simple conversation. Even if their topics trended towards the mundane—on the topics of the weather, on the castle's inhabitants, and even simply on how the month had gone—Kiran couldn't find himself growing bored. It is a repetitive sort of sentiment, but no less truth.

Though, Kiran finds himself often glancing, peeking, at Lucius.

His thoughts range from the normal worries of an amateur chef—fears of accidental food poisoning, mediocre taste, or even simply a dislike for his choices—to stranger thoughts. There is a certain joy he finds in observing Lucius.

In the shade of shimmering stars—unhidden by smog or mindful, covetous clouds—there is a certain loveliness, a radiance deserving of Eris's apple and the envy of the heavens and heightened by enthralled moonbeams.

In the curve of his eyes, the fullness of his cheeks, the grace of his movements, even the Madonna would discover contentious envy.

It is a splendor that sinks fish and entices birds to fall. It is a splendor that eclipses the moon and shames flowers.

And in this, Kiran feels a sense of discomfort, one that causes both aversion and fascination.

It is a feeling that he quashes immediately.

Instead, he listens—content in the lull of Lucius's voice, a sweet hymn, more enticing than the Pied Piper's song and gentler than that of Christine's melody or even Phoebus's harp.

Eventually time dwindles, and dinner comes to a close, much to Kiran's disappointment.

He expects Lucius to leave then; he certainly did not expect him to stay and clean after all. However, Lucius's next words surprise him.

"Do you wish to stay here a bit longer? The view tonight is beautiful."

And he agrees.

The town is aglow with the hanging lights—candleflame and magic alike—and lanterns dangling, circling upon their lines and branches. With the blessing of the hanging moon, the town—awash in snow—gleams white, garbed in angel plumage. Moving through the town, specks of color, Heroes and visitors and townsfolk alike, intermingle, moving to-and-fro between the various merchant stands and festival tents.

In the distance, fireworks—reds, whites, and a spectrum of other shades—bloom in an attempt to mimic the celestial forget-me-nots of angels. The official commencement of the Winter Festival as it is.

He can imagine the noise below—both joy and holiday mischievousness, but here above, alongside the heavens, it is quiet, pleasant in its simplicities.

Lost in the moment, neither Kiran nor Lucius hear the squeak of wheels or the opening and closing of a door.

* * *

**AN**: We're getting into the meat of everything in terms of symbolism and allusions and all that. The allusions, while a flex of the brain muscles, are not simply there to fill word quota or to shallowly describe the situation. They serve as other facets or looks into Kiran's character (alongside describing the situations of course). You have a whole juxtaposition of Christianity and paganism (rather broad word but it works well enough for this) and the idea of conflict. Additionally, you can see Kiran's bastardization of various phrases, such as a rather famous one from Madame Bovary (whose situation somewhat resembles Kiran's in some aspects). There are bits here and there of that that play into the symbolism and literary aspect of this work.

And for the less well-known, Jia Baoyu is a major character from Dreams of the Red Chamber, one of China's four great classics while Vasusena is another name for the Indian hero, Karna. There's a rather sizable (as in numbering in the dozens) amount left in the chapter if one wishes to analyze.

And why Libra? It is not simply because I like Libra or because of superficial similarities to Lucius. Much like every character prominently portrayed in this fic, everyone, including Robin, has a story unbeknownst to Kiran. I actually have the draft for it (and Zenith' world building setup) on my hard drive. Not everything is or will be mentioned but it's simply so it's not made up as one goes along. There is a set piece to work with. There is a lot of reasons (symbolism, juxtaposition, foil, etc.) for this choice outside of the aforementioned two. And on a more shallower note, Libra was my S-Support for M!Robin with the Gay Awakening hack.

As another aside, I am not satisfied with the grammar or phrasing of some of these chapters, but they're rather long to fully redo or edit.

And final unrelated note, Maddening No-NG+ Blue Lions is rather easy for me so far (up to Chapter 7). I've done BL before as my first playthrough, but I do want that golden title screen. Very excited for Yuri as well since he's supposed to be an option for M!Byleth, and while Linhardt is very endearing, another run with him as S-support is tiresome. Probably gonna do a NG+ with my main file for that.


	6. Erik

**AN**: Today's chapter title comes from The Phantom of the Opera's titular character and his name. I was originally going to go with Opera Ghost, but I prefer the simplicity of just "Erik" (even if it is a bit vague). As a side note, The Phantom of the Opera was a book first—not particularly one of my favorites—but I think it fits for this chapter's title inspiration.

* * *

Red berries grow in southern land.

How many load in spring the trees!

Gather them till full is your hand;

They would revive fond memories.

— "Love Seeds," Wang Wei

The castle is odd today, more akin to the White Witch's castle than to the rather medieval sensibilities of Askr.

Drawing his coat and hood closer to himself, Kiran continues, pass the mirrored walls, pristine and unmelted despite the noontime sunbeams. Instead, the light only accentuates the delicate skill of the castle's architect. The geometric patterns, reminiscent of snowflakes, glitter mesmerizingly in the light.

Each step resounds—echoes heaving like frost—in the hallway. The corridors wind like a frozen river, sculpture shadows dancing on the glasslike floors. Like a charade of shadow play, the deer and rabbits frolic, the fowls fly with forever-spread wings, and the beasts pounce, mouths stretched in fearsome roars. They follow like old acquaintances, leaving only when he rounds the bend and replaced.

Despite the brightness, it is an eerie sort, an almost-mockery of nature and of civilization. There is no noise—no prattle and play of children, no enthusiastic shouts from shopkeepers, no other footsteps besides his own.

There are no barking dogs eager to play, no neighing horses pleading for treats, and no birdsong to accompany him. It is simply himself and the shadows, cursed into eternal silence.

It is simply solitude.

* * *

Perhaps it is due to wine, but Kiran's dreams are strange.

Waking up, he only recalls bits and pieces—leaning shadows and clinking steps. There isn't much else he could remember.

Though as he thinks, attempting to recall, his cheeks flush. Instead of his dreams, the memories of last night rush into his head—bursting like water gushing from a dam.

It had been a pleasant night among friends—only heightened by the wine and pleasantries.

(Virion had been right. Nifl red wine had been an excellent choice to pair with the beef. It had been an intense sort of flavor—intense but not overbearingly sweet. Rather, it had held a touch of fruitiness—strawberries and grapes with a hint of rose. It had certainly been less bitter than the liquor of his youth anyway.)

For the most part, it had the atmosphere that Kiran enjoyed the most. Simply enjoying the view and listening to Lucius speak underneath the starry gardens of heaven.

Walking to his desk, he gently flips open the cover of a book—the botanical guide. There is a sense of giddiness that fills him as he looks at it. With care, he turns the pages—from Aloe vera to feverfew to marigold and mint. He flips through hundreds of pages, each plant carefully drawn and section alphabetized.

Eventually, he settles on daffodil. The illustration—a set of four drawn in different angles—is a practical sort of thing, lacking in flourishes but no less detailed. On this page, Kiran notes Lucius's script, detailing the parts. It a neat sort of script—thin lines and curving cursive. It is a very practical kind of handwriting, lacking in excessive loops and embellishments and attractive in its simplicity.

He admires the illustration for a few moments before finally closing the book. While he would like to continue his current endeavors, he knows someone—most likely Sharena—will come looking for him eventually.

He grabs his coat from the chair and makes his way towards the door, caught up in the day's routine and forgetful of his dreams.

* * *

Officially, the Winter Festival is a weeklong event, extending from the twenty-fifth of the twelfth month to the thirty-first. Though some would argue that it extended to the first day of the new year. That is, at the very least, certainly when clean-up began and mistakes of the previous night are realized anyway.

Kiran could have given himself a few more days of preparation, but what use would it have been? Three extra days of practice would not have made him a master chef or a master painter. Furthermore, it is the beginning and the end of the festival that held the most significance, at least in Kiran's opinion. Perhaps, it is a leftover of his own world's calendar and his own preconceptions, but everything inbetween those two dates felt lackluster, less "special" as it were.

They were simply days that one used to wind down, between the excitement of Christmas and the oaths of New Year's Eve.

He doesn't mind all too much though really. It simply meant more time to relax and more time to paint.

Certainly, there is a particular joy to be found in roaming a place like Askr—lanterns strung, musicians playing, and townsfolk dressed for festivities.

It is a peaceful sort of existence.

* * *

Day two and three of the Winter Festival pass without a hitch, and his dreams do not wander.

On the fourth day, however, his mind returns to that place or rather, to the outskirts of its gardens. He presumes that it there is a relation anyway. The décor seemed to certainly match. In the distance, pass the hedges, he sees the faint outline of a palace, silhouette obscured both by snow and the remoteness of his position.

(It is odd how the human mind forgets once the day breaks, but recalls in the lonesome hours of the night. One could bury a memory—a seed—and forget until it flowered in a dream, subconscious shaking loose soil.)

Like his previous visit, there isn't much he can do besides continue forward toward the palace, snow drifting softly. Thankfully, the snowfall is only light—neither squall nor blizzard.

Once more, his only company is the sculptures—figures halted in eternity, time taken as if by a playful trick of the fae folk. He passes swans, necks intertwined, lounging nymphs with eyes coy and playful, and sleeping dragons, lifelike and almost ready to wake. Their marblelike scales glimmer underneath the flecks of snow.

Overhead, the sky is overcast, its dull gray barren of life and movement outside of the falling, swaying snow.

In the breeze, a tree shudders—bare branches twisted and red berry bunches swaying like Chinese talismans.

He wants to touch them of course, to feel the stone scales beneath his fingertips, but he cannot, not with the falling snow. He fears a swift change in weather. He has no information, no idea on where he is. Without that, he simply could not find shelter if worst came to worst and thus, he could not waste time on admiration.

The snow crunches underneath his boots, and Kiran shivers. He isn't used to the cold, not after a year in Askr's warm, mild climate. While the coat is warm, it hadn't been created with these temperatures in mind. Most standard Askrian uniforms would not be able to withstand it, not without supplementary equipment.

He tugs his hood closer to himself and walks quicker. If this is what gentle snowfall is like, he certainly didn't want to experience this location's version of a heavy snowstorm.

Despite his new pace, the palace seems no closer. Around him, the figures loom—jeering. The nymphs' jester, malicious in their silent laughter, and the swans leer, angry at his intrusion into their world.

Only the dragons disregards him, silent in their stone slumber, and that in itself, is the wickedest indignity.

Behind him, his footsteps disappear, erased by snowflakes.

* * *

Perhaps his lack of sleep is noticeable, but Corrin finds him the next day, next to the confectionery stand.

It is a charming sort of place, marked by its high-rising banners and vibrant, popping letters. Candies line the glass display cases, ranging from little bitty bonbons to colorful rock candies and candied fruits—whole strawberries, mandarin slices, and cut apples—to hand-wrapped toffees, their wrappers enticing in their design and variety, polka dots and stripes and dotted lines. To the sides of the display cases, sits a bamboo holder, lined with sugared fruit skewers—tanghulu. Next to it, a stand of amezaiku animals plays—goldfish and koi swimming, dogs barking, and cats sauntering.

Between the candy cases, two wooden baskets sit, ready for the stand's main attraction—dragon's beard candy.

The stand is one of Kamui's endeavors—her idea of fun and a way of earning a bit of extra pocket change. Besides her, Takumi works, pulling the sugar strands. Perhaps some would call it "henpecked," but Takumi didn't really seem to mind, preferring to spend time with Kamui over wandering the festival by his lonesome.

Furthermore, it isn't like they're always there. From time to time, he sees Ryoma there, hair tied into a ponytail by a blue ribbon and diligent. His work isn't quite as good as Kamui's or Takumi's, but he tries admirably.

Though, he couldn't say the other customers felt the same. The shop, while still busy, isn't quite as crowded as when Kamui and Takumi man it. However, Ryoma does attract quite a few female visitors.

(She is older than her male counterpart by a few years, having experienced peace for a near-decade before being drawn into another war. Though, her face is still as youthful as ever—the benefits of dragon's blood he presumes.

It had been a surprise to him—in part because of her story counterpart's ferocity and tenacity—when he had learned of her chosen profession, neither general, mercenary, nor even merely diplomat.

It had simply been confectioner.

After the war, she had chosen to open a confectionery store rather than pursue military work.

He had asked of course, ordered by his curiosity. In return, her reply had been simple, short but not rudely curt, merely benign.

"I'm tired," she said.)

Kiran had been admiring the candies—indecisive between the miniature chocolate foxes and the hawthorn skewers. He could certainly buy both, but he doesn't quite want his waistline to expand all too much. Furthermore, the stand's discounts didn't apply to him—he is neither a child nor is he a younger sibling.

(Perhaps, it is a consequence of both his own vanity and his upbringing, but the idea of overindulgence repulses him. Kiran remembers his father's words quite well. In particular, his father had been fond of quoting Proverbs. He remembers his father's stern baritone, not quite softened by years of retirement and a favorite of his: For the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags. It is shrewd sort of saying in Kiran's opinion, even if he didn't quite believe.)

Lost in his thoughts, it startles him when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he expects to see another customer, annoyed at his slow pace, or perhaps even a lost tourist in need of directions. Instead, he sees Corrin, light concern etched upon his eyes.

"May I speak to you?" He pauses for a moment, as if considering something. "Elsewhere and after you're done choosing of course."

He ends up picking the chocolates, and Kamui boxes them for him. Waving a quick goodbye to her, he leaves, following after Corrin and passing by Elise and Serra on the way out.

Corrin ends up taking him to one of the town parks. The trees are strung with lights, dormant in the morning glow, and the benches are covered in thin layers of snow. In the corner, there is a small pond, frosted over and ducks flown south.

For the most part, it is an empty place with only a few children roaming about. It is unsurprising for the most part. Most individuals, locals and tourists alike, would be assembled among the festival stands, and this particular park, at least in the winter, isn't as popular as some of the others. The view isn't quite as spectacular as some other locations, lacking in the hills and heights necessary for stargazing and people-watching. It is a bit of a secluded place, quite a bit a ways off from the stands and attractions as well.

The only real place of interest, the pond, lacked what made the location special—ducks.

Corrin passes by a few children before finally settling on a bench. He brushes the snow away before sitting down, hands folded elegantly on his lap. Even as someone who was isolated for a majority of his life, he didn't lack in manners—a leftover of a royal's childhood.

He pats the spot next to him, waiting for Kiran to sit before beginning.

"Seeing them play reminds me of my daughter"—there is a wistfulness in his tone—"I hope Dwyer is taking care of her. She hasn't quite mastered her Dragonstone yet, and she's prone to getting into trouble…"

He drifts off then before returning to the subject, serious.

"Though, that is not why I have requested an audience with you."

(Corrin's speech patterns are a bit odd—a blend of informality and formality—but it has its charms he supposes. When asked, Corrin had explained it as a result of his upbringing in the Northern Fortress. He hadn't had many people to talk to—to learn speech from. Of course, he had his tutors, but they couldn't stay for every single hour of the day. Likewise, his Nohrian siblings were not permitted to stay for long visitations. As a result, when he had learned to speak, he had taken from both his tutors and siblings and from the passing servants.)

Kiran expects the worst. Perhaps a spy in their midst or even an invasion? Or perhaps, Corrin simply wished to go home? He had just talked about his daughter after all. Corrin's face is certainly serious enough, lacking in the usual gentleness.

Corrin places a hand on Kiran's shoulder, still serious.

"Are you okay?"

The simplicity and straightforwardness of Corrin's question startles and confuses him.

Seeing his confusion, Corrin elaborates, "I mean, have you've been sleeping well? You seem ill-rested as of late."

His tone is sheepish then as he clarifies—most likely remembering Leo. "Well, worse than the usual for a tactician."

Corrin's perceptiveness astonishes him, though perhaps it shouldn't. He had led an army consisting of warring kingdoms after all.

(Corrin's naivety is an odd thing, one comparable to a coin flip. On some occasions, such as with matters of the bedchamber and courtship, his naivety often got the better of him and on others, his insight preceded him. In particular, his ability to understand and rally his allies is astounding. Certainly, one, even with the existence of advisors, could not have led two rivaling armies without some sort of natural charisma.)

Perhaps, he is silent for too long, but Corrin continues, "If it is not too presumptuous of me, I used to have nightmares during my time as a general. I still do from time to time actually, and if you need someone to talk to, I am available. I find talking often relieves me of my worries and perhaps, it may be the same for you."

He shifts a bit, retracting his hand from Kiran's shoulder and folding his hands in his lap once more.

"Though if you do not wish to talk, I find tea often helps—lime flower tea in particular or perhaps, valerian if you have particularities when it comes to taste. Jakob often makes it for me before bed."

He quiets then, finished.

He is a bit touched by Corrin's concern in all honesty, and he can understand the charm that drew opposing sides together. There is a certain charm in his concern—genuine and earnest in a way that one often couldn't find outside of children. It is only accentuated by his odd manner of speech—lilting words accented by both a commoner's warble and a noble's crescendo.

"Ah, I have been having strange dreams lately"—that is easy, vague, enough to reveal—"but I don't think they're all that serious."

Kiran shrugs, completing his appearance of nonchalance.

Of course, in all actuality, the dreams do bother him—the unheard melody, the pallid snow, and the skulking shadows. Everything bothers him, but it is not something he wishes to trouble another with.

Concern, in her encore, still dances in Corrin's eyes.

"Are you sure?" Her whispers play at the edges of his voice. He doesn't quite believe him, but he continues on anyway. He isn't quite like Robin, playful yet bitingly, pointily sharp. He is softer, more concerned with the process rather than merely the results—akin to a surgeon's blade rather than a thief's stiletto.

"Then perhaps"—his voice drifts before he speaks, as if considering the ramifications or some stray thought—"is someone bothering you? I mean, my world is much the same, though I hadn't expected Zenith to hold the same biases. The people are rather nice, and the history books mention such pairings."

Corrin's words confuse him greatly. He hadn't expected that sort of response nor did he quite understand what exactly Corrin is referencing.

Though, Corrin doesn't seem to notice his confusion, not as of yet anyway. His brow is scrunched in thought as he prattles on.

"I mean, the validity of my marriage was put into question, what with the difference in social class as well as the more obvious, though that was eventually resolved with my brother's help. It had been quite the scandal when it was announced—nobles often don't marry outside of their class, especially with their own servant, or ex-servant rather. Xander had had much of the same problems as well with the difference in social class; the nobles hadn't liked Charlotte all too much, especially with the wrench it caused with the arranged marriages. Perhaps, you can ask Anna or Sharena for help? I'd recommend Alfonse, but he isn't quite in favor with some of his subjects."

Kiran's confusion does not abate with Corrin's words. Rather, it only intensifies with each sentence Corrin spouts.

"—or perhaps, it is his profession that you're concerned about? I can perhaps help you with that, ask him about any potential vows of celibacy I mean. I would be discreet of course. I'm particularly goo—"

Kiran interrupts, incredibly confused, "Corrin, I have no idea what you're talking about. I mean, I find the court intrigue fascinating, but I have no idea what this has to do with me."

Corrin's eyes show a bit of alarm as he flusters, realization setting in.

"O-oh, I apologize then. I had assumed that you were… never mind."

Corrin's cheeks are tinted red, a near-exact match for the hue of his eyes.

"Assumed what?" Kiran's tone isn't malicious, simply curious once more. He is aware of the saying of course, of a cat's curiosity, but the satisfaction of an answer is something he quite enjoys. There is a tinge of dread in his heart, like the dormant bloom in winter, expectant for springtide., but curiosity overrides concern.

Corrin fidgets, most likely at his perceived social faux-pas. Kiran isn't quite sure of the exact reason, but he can at least understand that.

Though, Kiran couldn't quite understand how Corrin made thumb twiddling elegant. Another mystery of the nobility possibly or perhaps, it is simply another of Corrin's rather unique mannerisms.

"Well?" He hopes his tone is gentle, obvious in its curiosity rather than harsh and demanding. Corrin is one of the nicer Heroes and one of his first summons, and he doesn't quite want to alienate him.

The silence continues, the distant sounds of the festival intruding, peeking through the crack of nature's doorway, before Corrin finally relents.

In these sorts of moments, Corrin's politeness undoes him, unwinding like a cat's ball of yarn. He couldn't simply end the conversation nor is he the sort of individual to simply walk away mid-word.

"Do not take this the wrong way, but I had assumed," he pauses, clearly uncomfortable and hopeful that Kiran would desist.

"Yes?" Perhaps it is a bit mean to push Corrin like this, but it isn't like they could stay there all day.

(There are other motives of course, but he buries those thoughts.)

Corrin takes a breath—a tactic for drawing out the conversation—before speaking, "I had assumed you held the same inclinations."

There is a certain understanding in Corrin's meaning, but it isn't one that he wishes to probe further. However, it is a certain sort of matter he could not leave uncertain either. Nebulousness on matters uncomfortable often left one in need of confirmation—certainty—even if the answer is apparent in all but speech.

That is simply how humans are—desiring assurance on matters clear yet unpleasant and refusing reality on matters unclear and open to interpretation.

Thus, it is unsurprising when Kiran speaks again. Beneath the snow, trepidation's petals peek.

"I-I What do you mean?"

Corrin's cheeks still hold a tinge of red as he speaks, "My apologies again. I did not mean to offend you nor did I mean to be ambiguous in my words."

"What I meant is"—he pauses to consider his words, most likely in an attempt to salvage the situation—"I had assumed you held a similar attraction to men."

Kiran's heart sinks at that. Certainly, he couldn't have assumed much else from Corrin's previous words, but there had been a hope, futile as it is, that possibly, he had simply misinterpreted Corrin's words or perhaps that Nohr and Hoshido held different euphemisms.

"Takumi often says that I can be too nosy for my own good, and I guess he can be right from time to time."

Corrin rubs the back of his head in embarrassment. It is a bit of an understatement and a poor attempt to diffuse the awkwardness, but Kiran can at least appreciate his attempt.

Though, it does nothing to ease the sensation within his chest—dread flowered into nausea and spread petals open for the gazing sun.

However, his response doesn't sate Kiran's curiosity entirely. There are bits and pieces of Corrin's ramblings that still bother him.

(Though, Kiran, in the deepest recesses of his mind, knows the answer. There is only one singular answer. There are many deformities one would like to hide—to ignore—about their own character. In particular, one would feel especially inclined to entomb their failings—their slights against others—within time's mausoleum.)

And thus, he asks.

"How did you come to that conclusion? I mean, it doesn't bother me"—it does naturally—"but how, specifically, did you reach it? And celibacy? What's that about?"

"Ah"—Corrin's twiddles his thumbs, a habit not unlike Robin's tapping—"do not take this the wrong way. I did not mean to disparage your friendship, but I had assumed that you held…a more intimate relationship with Lucius."

Oh. It is one thing to think and another to hear it stated so bluntly. His chest feels constricted, heart ticking like a damaged clock.

He continues, "I would normally not assume so much, but you often spend time with him. Of course, that by itself would not lend itself to my misgivings, but it is in your actions during those times."

Corrin sighs, likely frustrated at his faux pas once more.

"There is a certain joy in your eyes whenever you're with him as well as a lightness in your steps. You're less…pardon my language, withdrawn. You are more genuine then."

"Is that all? That's a bit much. Lucius is a good friend." His laugh then is a bit forced, awkward and short, but Corrin is a polite enough man. He doesn't comment on it.

(He ignores the last bit as well, more focused on everything else.)

He only clarifies.

"No, it is in both yours and Lucius's actions. He is more considerate when he is with you."

"Lucius is always considerate." Even the most blind of mice would be able to see that.

"Ah pardon, I mean more so. Lucius is a kind man, but when he is with you, there is a certain care in his actions. He is gentler. He reminds me a bit of Jakob in that respect."

Kiran feels a bit of incredulity at that. He had met Jakob numerous times before and worked with the man, and he would never describe him as such.

Most likely used to those sorts of reactions, Corrin explains, "I understand how that sounds, but he really is a caring sort of person. He can be…prickly at times, but he means well. Though in relation to our current conversation, what I mean is, I see the same sort of affection as when I am with Jakob."

Corrin quiets then, done.

Kiran isn't quite sure what to make of Corrin's words nor is he is he sure of what to reply with. He stews in his thoughts, hands placed firmly on his box.

Though, Corrin, to his credit, saves them from the silence.

"You are most likely tired of hearing this, but I do apologize again for my mistake. I had been worried about you. You seem more tired, and I only had only wished to see if I could help. It does not justify my ignorance, but I wanted to explain myself."

Corrin stands then, cape flowing and graceful. He extends a hand towards Kiran, of which he accepts, and pulls him up and off the bench.

"I've kept you too long from the festival as well. If you still wish to keep my company, we can walk back together. Perhaps towards today's archery contest? I know Virion is participating today."

It is an attempt at reconciling a small ill, but Kiran accepts, nonetheless.

Walking together is easier in a crowd after all.

* * *

Disappointingly enough, Virion only places third, behind Jeorge and Takumi. Of course, it is still a good placement, all things considering—it had been a contest among Heroes after all—but it is a disappointment, nonetheless.

However, Corrin's words stay with him throughout the day, lingering like a noblewoman's perfume. It is an uncomfortable sort of prick, akin to a doctor's needle. It is easy enough to distract himself, especially with the festival ongoing, but still, his words remain in the background, submerged like sand at high tide.

Like the sands, his discomfort reemerge when the day recedes. For Kiran, it is difficult to focus on the portrait—if it could even be called a portrait in its current state anyway.

(The canvas is blank—not for lack of attempt, but from distaste. He had attempted to paint, to sketch his subject's face, but nothing satisfies him. It only ends in the canvas covered in white, painted over for the next attempt. It is a cycle of errors and rectification, akin to an ouroboros or to Saṃsāra.)

It isn't particularly helped by his subject matter either. Concentrating on Lucius's qualities only brings Corrin's words to mind. It is foolish, of course, to work on something that would obviously bring to mind his worries, but Kiran wants to be productive. He wants to achieve, to surpass, and to convey.

Furthermore, sleep had not come easily. Upon his bed, his mind had only wandered, not to the darkened shores of the Oneiroi but to worrisome reality. Tossing and turning, he had only rumpled his sheets and dug himself further into the grave of his thoughts.

It is strange that Corrin's words bother him so. If one held no secrets, no internal fears, one could brush away such thoughts easily.

Of course, he is no such man. He is prone to curiosity, to thinking and to dissecting ideas. Moreover, such an accusation, as simple as it was, would obviously stir such contemplation.

He is no such man. He has no interest in that sort of lifestyle. He is aware of it of course. Who wouldn't be after last year's demonstration? It hadn't been covered particularly often, but newspapers had been easy enough to come by at the grocery store.

(Or perhaps he should say two years roughly? He isn't quite sure of how Askr's time aligns with his own world's.)

Even if he hadn't been aware of the demonstrations, it is easy enough to understand where the problem lies—the ostracization, the ridicule, and the scorn.

(He remembers the town scandal of his senior year—the pastor's son and some vagabond. The vagabond had been a frequent visitor to town, a man in his early twenties with a cleanshaven face, twinkling blue eyes, and curling blond hair—the stereotypical angel one would expect to see in Notre Dame or the Vatican rather than some dinky town. Kiran had only been aware of him because of his frequent visits to Mrs. Davis's store, always after noon. He had been the sort of man to slip a few extra coins as a gift when he paid—to the "short lad" as he would say. On the pastor's son, Kiran, despite their shared school year, hadn't been all too aware of him outside of passing rumors and shared group projects—sincere, handsome, kind, and confident. He had been the sort one had expected to go to Harvard or Princeton or some other prestigious university in some far-off country, perhaps in England or France.

It had been a shock when the two had been discovered together—found in some motel room in a nearby town. Perhaps it had been bad luck or merely the will of some deity, but they had had the misfortune of simply being seen by a passing classmate, there on a visit to family, and it had spiraled from there.

Kiran isn't quite sure what happened to them after outside of some vague details. He only knows the ending, that the two had ridden off with the bare essentials in some damned hour of the night. Soon after, the pastor had moved.)

He doesn't have a problem with those sorts of course, but it is simply something that should be kept behind closed doors, away from staring eyes. Certainly, that is society's will.

Perhaps the idea bothers him because of his appearance. He is small, slight of frame. He isn't so feminine as to be mistaken for a woman, but he isn't quite the ideal of masculinity either. It is a sore point of sorts for him.

But overall, the idea of being with a man repulses him, causes his body to shudder. It simply isn't appealing to imagine himself with another man.

Though, what unnerves him most is the idea of an intimate relationship with Lucius.

Rather, it unnerves him in its absence. There is no repulsion in the idea—no resistance but simply, a strange sort of pull in his chest.

It isn't something that he enjoys at all nor does he want to consider the reasons.

His dreams later that night are not plagued by snow or ice or even simply memories of the past—altered film reels played on mind's movie screen.

It had simply been a what-if, a link—not unlike Ariadne's thread—among many to an implausible future, a longing sweetness found only in fantasies and condemned upon waking.

It is a happy foolishness untarnished by law and expectations—one shared by only one and evening's visitor.

It is a solitary dream, cast in the hush of stars and bobbing like a lure upon a still ocean.

* * *

He spends the second-to-last day of the Winter Festival with Sharena, pulled along between stalls and various restaurants.

"I don't understand why Alfonse refuses to take a break! It's festival time, and he's still holed up in his room doing reports! I thought Anna confiscated all of them as well! Where did he even find them?"

Angrily, Sharena shoves a piece of apo Tofu into her mouth and chews. Her chopsticks clink against her bowl as she continues.

Close to her, there are plates of stuffed dried garlic eggplant, dim sum, sliced braised cucumber, and chicken fat sautéed spinach. A glass of Nifl red wine stands to the side, next to her napkin and a bowl of jasmine rice. A Peking duck sits at the center of the table. It is a bit of a mishmash of cuisines, but Sharena likes them well enough.

Across from her, Kiran sits. He has much of the same dishes as Sharena—outside of a water instead of wine—though in much smaller quantities. He doesn't quite understand how Sharena can eat so much, especially with the number of food stands and restaurants they have visited and plan to visit. It is a mystery of sorts, especially with her petite frame, but he isn't shameless or rude enough to ask.

He only nods at her, mouth still full of Mapo Tofu. It is a spicy, savory sort of favor complimented by the greens.

"How could he choose work over spending time with me, his sister? It's only seven days out of a whole year."

Sharena pouts before speaking again, "Anyways, do you have any siblings? Or maybe some close cousins?"

Swallowing, Kiran answers, "No, I'm an only child, and my cousins live across the ocean in my world. We don't really communicate really outside of the occasional letter."

"Oh"—Sharena seems disappointed by that—"if you get the chance to, you should talk to them more. Family is important."

A silence descends on them, interspersed with the clinking of dishes and utensils and the conversation drifting in from other booths. It isn't quite awkward, but it isn't exactly comfortable either.

Kiran picks at his remaining food with his pair of chopsticks. It is delicious, especially the tofu and duck, but he has eaten quite a bit already.

"So, how are enjoying the food?"

It is Sharena's attempt at lessening the awkwardness.

"Oh, it's good. The Mapo Tofu is my favorite."

It is a bit of a rough response, but it is truthful. At the very least, Sharena brightens up.

"Good! I was kinda worried you wouldn't like it. Alfonse doesn't really care for the spiciness. The Mapo Tofu is a seasonal dish here. It is a bit weird considering some of the other restaurants serve it year-round, but the one here is my favorite. The spices taste better I think."

Sharena sighs, whether from the heat of the food or from eating too much Kiran isn't quite sure.

"I actually went here quite often as a child, whenever we visited the Order of Heroes. It was mostly business for my parents, but we always ate at this restaurant before we left."

Sharena picks up a piece of duck with her chopsticks and places it into her rice bowl, letting the fats from the meat soak into the rice.

"Anna was actually a cadet then. We—Alfonse and I— actually met her here, during one of her lunch breaks."

Sharena pauses for a moment in consideration before picking up another duck piece and placing it next to its twin.

"She's actually the reason Alfonse joined the Order."

Kiran's interest perks up that, and Sharena notices and continues, elaborating.

"I mean, she didn't recruit him specifically or anything like that. She mostly just told stories—heroics, her day-to-day life, and all that."

That bit of information startles Kiran. Alfonse hadn't seemed like a romantic at all.

Sharena picks up a bit of rice—now light gold in hue from the duck fat—and places it in her mouth and chews before swallowing.

"He isn't a romantic or anything. He hates fairy tales actually. He used to try and escape whenever mother read us a bedtime story"—Sharena gives a light laugh at that—"what actually made him join were the specifics of Anna's stories."

Kiran's interest peaks with that.

"They weren't particularly well-told stories, but they were truthful. She glossed over the worst of it for us—we were young after all—but I think that was what really got to Alfonse. She told us about her family and the outlying towns."

She eats a bit more of her rice and picks up another piece of duck. Her bowl is already half empty.

"Well…the Knights try to protect everyone, but they're only one group you know? They have obligations to our family, and they can't really go everywhere like the Order can. Askr is a big place you know? They're a bit more selective with their members, and there just isn't enough of them to travel everywhere and keep the capital safe as well."

She taps the rim of her bowl with her chopsticks before continuing, "She told us about her troubles—her family's financial difficulties, the bandit raids, everything we don't really get to hear as nobles. I think that was what really got to Alfonse—his ignorance on everything. At the time, our father had already begun his training for Alfonse's eventual succession, but he had never been taught those sorts of things. Of course, we knew about the bandit raids and bad harvests, but it is a bit different when you hear it from someone who has experienced it—the details I mean."

She sighs again.

"I think Anna's terrible storytelling actually helped in that aspect. She lacks the flourishes you have, but it is blunt as a result—unsettling to hear about. I think our father actually blames her for Alfonse's enrollment into the Order—some of the nobles and commoners do. Not around here of course, but in the capital and surrounding areas."

She finishes her bowl and places it down, the porcelain clinking against the wood of the table.

"But! That's enough heaviness for today! Are you full? We can go visit the park or maybe the training fields, work off that meal before we visit the next one."

Kiran doesn't have much to say after Sharena's story, so he merely nods.

What would one say after hearing something like that?

At Kiran's affirmation, Sharena waves her hand to bring over a waiter, a few boxes for their leftovers, and the bill.

As she pays, Sharena remembers something and pulls out a few more coins.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Can we please have a box of chicken dumplings to go? Those are my brother's favorites."

* * *

Painting tonight brings him no closer to finishing. He discards palette after palette, dissatisfied once the paint reaches the canvas. He thinks he might have to discard the canvas as well soon, or at the very least, sand it down. The layers are thickening, and the texture of the canvas is becoming repugnant.

Even if he finished the portrait, gifting it on such unsightly material would be disgraceful.

Placing his brush down onto his palette, Kiran sighs and walks towards the open window. He leans out the window, chin resting upon his palm and elbow resting on stone, and gazes toward the town. He would not stay long here. After all, he does not want to ruin his brush.

But, it is simply a momentary break.

It is a pretty place, strewn with lanterns and festival stragglers. The moonlight gleams upon the white of the trees, adorned with red silk brocade ribbon and glass ornaments, and upon the snow-covered roofs. The colorful glass tinkles and swings in the soft winter breeze, basking in light and uncaring of their admirers. The houses stand tall, dressed in banners and seasonal cheer. From his height, Kiran can only see the blurry silhouettes of people—still awake and rushing about for tomorrow.

It is an idyllic scene, one that wouldn't be all too out of place in one of his fantasy novels.

The breeze tickles his face, petting his hair and rustling his bangs. Above, the moon hangs, high and proud. The stars twinkle, bright alongside their mistress.

It is a simple moment in time, free from worry's gaze.

* * *

On the final day of the festival, Kiran spends time by himself, wandering about. He has had his fill of the food. At the very least, he could not eat much more, not after his day with Sharena, without some distress and guilt.

Thus, he ends up mostly visiting stands for pleasantries. Like Kamui and Takumi, not every Hero chose to simply play the part of a tourist.

He passes by Reflet and Henry at their spell shop, mostly primed with good luck talismans and amulets and the occasional spell book, Jeorge at his shooting booth (set up not unlike a carnival game with plates and glass bottles), and so forth.

As he walks between each place, he catches glimpses of various other Heroes interspersed with the town residents—Gordin, Innes, and Alm competing at Jeorge's booth, Delthea and Clarisse at the sweet stand, Celica and Est chatting by the fountains. Overhead, he can see the telltale armor of Hoshidan pterippi—most likely Subaki and Hinoka on a casual outing.

He even sees some odd pairs roaming about—Arvis and Seliph, Roderick and Berkut, Palla and Lissa.

Though perhaps, it shouldn't be as odd as it is, certainly not with Kiran's background.

Askr, and Zenith as a whole, is a fantastical place for someone like Kiran. Dragons and pterippi and even the existence of magic are more than mere fantasy. They are all tangible things—capable of being seen and touched.

It is a different sort of amazement than with the steam engines and tellies and radio of Kiran's world. It is not a normality.

Furthermore, Askr is a place of possibility—where time and space blur in a lover's embrace and impossible meetings become reality rather than remain as speculative fiction. It is a place to reconcile the legendary with the everyday and to reach for lost opportunity and rectify regret—to learn as Eve did when she grasped the fruit.

Thus, should relationships—familial or otherwise—be ordinary, expected no matter the individuals?

Kiran isn't quite sure where he stands on that.

* * *

In the early evening, he finds Lucius again, or rather, Lucius finds him.

There's the tap on the shoulder (as expected as it is nowadays with Kiran), and the low, honeysuckle sweet call of "Kiran." Perhaps it is exaggeration, but it is merely truth for Kiran (as much as it disturbs him, now with Corrin's words shaking his core).

Today, rather than a battlefield, the infirmary, or even a location with just the two of them, they speak in the middle of a noodle shop—bare to the world and unhidden by stone or snow.

"May I join you?" There is Lucius's voice again, soft-spoken yet firm.

Kiran can only nod, afraid of his speech failing.

With that, Lucius pulls out the chair and sits across from Kiran.

Today, the shop is noisy—bustling and full most likely from its relatively close proximity to Kamui's stand. People often desire a savory meal after a sugary treat after all.

As they wait for their meal, Kiran's heart beats—fluttering like a hummingbird's wings.

Across from him, Lucius stirs his tea, having added a drop of wildflower honey. The steam drifts readily from his cup, having been recently brought to their table by a waitress alongside Kiran's modest glass of water.

Unlike most (normal) occasions with Lucius, Kiran isn't quite sure of what to say. He couldn't elaborate further on his world's stories; it would take too long. Furthermore, there is a sense of embarrassment or rather, the fear of it. What if he became too excited during his story? Made too many wild gestures or spoke too loudly?

Maybe it is foolish, but that is simply another of Kiran's fears.

"Kiran?" Lucius's voice stirs him from his thoughts, and he looks up.

The blue of Lucius's eyes are stunning—akin to or even surpassing the Blue Belle—and it almost takes his breath away. With that thought, a surge of guilt stabs his heart, needle pricking.

Though, perhaps there truly was a needle in his heart. Perhaps someone somewhere was stabbing a voodoo doll—pins capped in red. Certainly, that would explain the deceit of his soul.

It is wicked to feel this way—a shame unwillingly etched onto his soul and a shame bestowed unjustly onto Lucius.

He is a good man.

He once again hears his name, now tinged with concern.

"Kiran? Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah. Sorry, got caught up in my thoughts." His voice is a bit weak, even to his own ears, but there isn't much he can do about it.

Lucius doesn't quite believe him by the look in his eyes, but thankfully, he doesn't prod further.

Their meal arrives soon after—duck shoyu for Lucius and a tonkotsu ramen for Kiran. It is a bit of a foreigner's dish, even for Askr, and especially for Kiran. Watersmeet had not exactly had a variety in cuisine, and his mother had not held much interest in the cuisine of the East.

For Askr, these sorts of dishes hail from the northern kingdoms beyond the mountains, brought along with the travelers and migrants.

The noodles are thin, piled in the center of the rich brown broth. Three thick slices of chashu pork and a sheet of nori are placed delicately to the side. Decorating the dish are a few stripes of menma—resting atop the corner of the noodles and across from the half slice of soft-boiled egg, golden center facing upward. Completing the dish is a sprinkling of green onion and the wafting of fragrant steam.

Sitting together is easier when one has food. Whether one wished to remain quiet, or if one desired to speak, a meal offered many opportunities for one to do so. If one wished for the former one merely had to eat—fill their mouth and chew—or if it is the latter, one simply had to wait until everyone else began eating to speak.

Kiran chooses the former. To his delight, the tonkotsu ramen is as delicious as its appearance suggests. Its deliciousness is particularly heightened by its status as Kiran's first meal of the day. Beforehand, he had not eaten all too much, then still too full from yesterday.

(Food did not merely decide who had the right to speak. A meal shared together is one that connects individuals. It is a thread that connects friends and enemies, family and strangers. It is a way of extending an olive branch and of forming a bond. Though perhaps, that sort of thought is a consequence of Caeda's ideals rather than his own.)

He finishes about a quarter of the bowl before sneaking a glance at Lucius. To his surprise, Lucius's bowl is barely touched, only a bit of the noodles and a chunk of the duck are missing. Instead, Lucius is staring intently at him.

"Do you not like it?" Kiran's words embarrass himself as well. He hadn't meant to be that forward or to even speak, but his tongue had moved before his brain could catch up.

There is a hint of nervous surprise in Lucius's eyes before he composes himself.

"It is fine, delicious even."

"Oh. Are you maybe not hungry then?" There isn't much use in remaining quiet now. If he did, the atmosphere would only become awkward.

"I am, but I had wanted to ask you about something. Though, I was not quite sure on when to ask." Lucius's voice is smooth, unlike what his eyes would have previously suggested.

"Oh? What is it?"

"Do you want to watch the fireworks with me tonight?"

It is a simple question, but it almost stops Kiran's heart.

"Of course, other people will be there. The hill outside of town is a popular location."

Kiran's thoughts are racing—a clench of his chest, the dilation of his eyes, and most importantly, the stab of disgust that pierces his heart like Cupid's arrow. It isn't disgust at Lucius of course. He could never bring himself to feel that about the man, not without discarding his mind and soul.

It is simply disgust at himself.

"Though if you are busy, I will not hold it against you if you decline." There is a familiar smile, soft and open and unbearably cruel in its sweetness and acceptance.

Kiran almost declines then, but something stops him. Perhaps selfishness or a memory—he certainly remembers his apology to Lucius—but he hesitates.

Whatever the reason, he loathes the way his heart feels after Lucius smiles, wide and lovely as always, as he hears his answer.

* * *

The hill is crowded when they arrive, and Kiran worries, as his nature to do. What if they couldn't find a comfortable spot?

Thankfully, after a few moments of walking, Raven waves them over. Nearby, Kiran sees Raigh, chatting with Rhajat. Around them, Kiran spots a few other Heroes—Julia and Shigure, Azura and Michalis, and even a few of the more…"difficult" Heroes like Valter, Ursula, and Narcian.

The spot itself is rather nice—underneath a tree and with a picnic blanket set out. No doubt, Raven had arrived early to scout for favorable locations.

Sitting down, Kiran leans back against the tree, shifting until he finds a comfortable placement.

It isn't much longer until the festival's closing ceremony begins, and the fireworks start. Certainly, the mages are most likely in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lucius speaking with Raven. He couldn't quite hear them, not with the chatter from the hill's other visitors, but he sees Lucius pass him a wrapped box—most likely the soba maki he had ordered before leaving the noodle stand.

Kiran expects him to chat longer with Raven—until the fireworks begin—but to his surprise, after a few more moments, Lucius ceases and walks over towards him.

"May I sit next to you?"

Wordlessly, Kiran scooches over, and Lucius sits down. Even with the small distance between them, Kiran can feel the heat radiating from the man's body.

"Thank you." Lucius's breath comes in visible puffs. The night is chilly today, not intolerable but much colder than the previously pleasant winter evenings.

It is a little joke of sorts by Jack Frost, a final jest before the year rolls over.

With their close proximity, it is all but impossible to notice what Lucius is wearing, or rather, what he isn't.

He hadn't changed his outfit all that much despite the cold. The fabric is still thin, more meant to endure Elibe's milder climate than an Askr winter. He had added a scarf and a pair of mittens of course, but it isn't enough for the current weather in Kiran's opinion.

(By the shade of the purple, they were most likely gifts from Raigh. Who else would choose that particular color?)

Kiran isn't all too cold despite the weather; his outfit assures that. The turtleneck warms his neck and arms, insulating heat, and his gloves protect his fingers. This isn't even to mention his coat.

Beside him, Lucius breathes, puffs of air still visible.

Perhaps it is the devil's work or perhaps some other trickster, but an idea forms in Kiran's head. It is foolish, one that reinforces Corrin's words in his mind, but it is his, something that he couldn't quite resist.

He would be fine; his turtleneck is warm.

There is a hint of curiosity in Lucius's eyes as Kiran strips off his outer garment, though it quickly turns into gratitude when Kiran hands him his coat. They are not the same height, but it would serve well enough until they returned to town.

The chill nips his skin slightly, but there is a terrible heat in his chest.

Tonight, the fireworks are bright—blooming in the dark not unlike the warmth in his heart.

* * *

In his dreams tonight, he returns to the palace, albeit to a different section. Certainly, the décor remains much of the same—crystalline statues, frosted windows, and the mirror corridors. Although, there is a slight difference from his last visit, a new variable in the paalce's repetitive hallways.

On his left are doors. He tries them of course, but the doorknobs do not turn, not even a centimeter.

Much like last time, the only thing Kiran can do is continue on. The statues watch, mindful of his presence in their domain, and the light shimmers—beauty only refracted and accentuated by the ice-like interior.

It almost feels like hours before he reaches the end of his destination, a large set of double doors—carved vines intertwining with eternally leaping deer and watching wolves.

It is an old habit, one that he hadn't shaken off yet, but he rubs one of the deer, the one closest to the center, with his forefingers before attempting to open the door.

To his relief, the door, despite its size, opens easily, sliding cleanly and silently.

The room is rather small and bare for what the entryway would imply. A fireplace sits to the side—fire crackling. In front of it, two accent chairs are arranged in the classic position—not unlike what he often saw in old Christmas specials.

Further towards the back of the study, a few chairs surround the table. There isn't much to be said about the walls either. They are undecorated for the most part, lacking in both paintings and kingdom-identifying banners. From the right, near the bookshelf, light enters from an uncovered window, each pane swirling—a trick of the light he supposes.

Though, that isn't the most alarming aspect of the room.

That particular title would belong to the woman sitting in the chair.

* * *

**AN**: I did write Corrin with the implication that he is trans (as by the mentions of Kana and Dwyer) though it's not really relevant. You can assume fantasy dragon magic or adoption or whatever if you so prefer. It's not really relevant to this work's grand scheme. I think he is rather perceptive compared to the canon version as well, but it's essentially my own little interpretation and a nod towards how popular matchmaking is in modern FE games. Furthermore, he, like his counterpart, is older than when the events of their game took place as well. Though unlike his counterpart, Corrin went on a less "idyllic" path than retirement.

I also made a mix of western and eastern assortments with F!Corrin's scene since much like her heritage, her own life is a mixture of things—not really definite or certain. Symbolically, it represents both the bitterness and sweetness of her life, her upbringing, and her own current state. There's other bits and pieces like that in this work. Rather repetitive of me to state honestly, but I don't want to imply that this is the only bit of symbolism in this chapter or the work or that other side characters never have important to them.

You also get to see a glimpse of the politics of everything—with Corrin's world taking prominence this chapter. Askr (and Zenith as a whole) have theirs as well hinted at in the passing mentions of history, warfare, and such so far (ex. the Jade shop). Kiran doesn't get a full explanation for everything because, well, as stated before, he is rather narrow-focused. He doesn't really see the big picture. I actually did have to draft societies for all the named kingdoms in FEH, but much like many things, it's to accentuate, not to overtake the work's main focus. I also have a timeline set with the days and dates, so I do try to keep a continuity for this.

We also have more regional dishes here such as the Mapo Tofu, but the assumption can be made that they developed independently in Zenith with the same name as Kiran's world did.

Why Jakob? I like Jakob a lot, and he was my S-Support for M!Kiran with the Gay Fates hack. But on a less superficial note, it essentially comes down the idea of acceptance, childhood familiarity, and loyalty. Much like Robin/Libra, it also stems from drafts I never published (though they aren't necessary works to understand this). And much like the last chapter, you can see even more background relationships such as with Hoshido route Takumi/F!Corrin. And I am aware that the Hoshidan flying mounts are called Tenma, but I decided not to go with that since the differences are rather minuscule outside of the "accepts male riders" thing and the linguistics.

As an aside, Libra from the last chapter isn't necessarily talking about just art. I think it is rather obvious, but I do use the end notes to give more background to those who prefer a more "guided" (or less "reader-interpretation") reading. And on Kiran's art, it's not random words it's impressionism, at least for his second piece.


	7. Eliduc

At the dawn of creation

Who sowed the seeds of love?

From the strong passion of breeze and moonlight they came.

So in this world of sweet longing

On a day of distress, in an hour of loneliness,

Fain would I impart my senseless grief

By singing this _Dream of Red Mansions_

To mourn the Gold and the Jade.

— "Prologue to the Dream of Red Mansions," Cao Xueqin

"Hello Summoner. I apologize for the strangeness of our meeting, but I had no other way of contacting you."

Her voice is even and authoritative, but not unbearably cold or aloof. Rather, there is a hint of warmness—soothing and comforting as a hug or a parent's heartbeat. Perhaps it is a contrary description, but Kiran could not describe it as anything else.

It is the sort of voice one would expect from a mother rather than a young woman in her early twenties.

She makes a motion for him to sit in the chair opposite to hers, and he complies. In his opinion undoubtedly, it is the best decision at the moment.

What else could he do? He is in an unfamiliar location with an unfamiliar woman. Even with Breidablik at his waist, what could he do? It is not an artefact focused on offense or injuring another. He could not shoot her if worst came to worst. Furthermore, in the hypothetical case where Breidablik held offensive capabilities, what if he missed? The woman in front of him is an unknown variable, and hidden blades and magic are commonplace sights in Zenith.

Even the frailest of blossoms could hide a serpent.

He is not silver-tongued either—lacking in a genius's wit like Robin and the natural, easygoing charm of Corrin. Certainly, he held the capacity for planning, and his personality is not entirely intolerable, but he is not them. He could not calculate risks five steps ahead and four to the side like Robin nor did he have Corrin's amiability—an inherent charisma that captivated people and lulled them into discarding their animosity.

After sitting, Kiran surveys the woman in front of him, and she to him. She is a rather tall woman—that was keenly apparent even with her current position—garbed in light blues and whites. Kiran is not quite familiar with her dress. Certainly, he could discern that she came from a colder climate—her furred dress sleeves and the thick fabric of her garment allude to that—but he is not familiar with Zenith's other kingdoms and certainly not with their cultural fashion.

Her hair is rosy red in color, bordering on pale pink—the color of a seashell—and arranged in odd asymmetrical braids. A golden star-shaped charm dangles from her right braid, and her left braid is tied with a feathery fabric band. A headdress adorned with two silvery roses rests atop her head.

Her fair face is conventionally pretty, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and round, kind eyes. A muted pink, almost unnoticeable, adorns her lips and blushes her cheeks, complimenting the cerulean of her eyes.

After a few more moments, she speaks again.

"I understand these are strange circumstances, Summoner, but please understand, I do not mean harm to you or to your companions. I merely desire to speak with you."

Kiran remains silent, still guarded. Certainly, it would not do to trust strange women in strange castles upon a first meeting.

His distrust is obvious to her.

"I understand your reluctance, but I am willing to work for your trust."

She folds her hands upon her lap, the picture of elegance.

"To start, let me provide some information about myself. I am a priestess of my kingdom, or rather, I am a priestess-in-training. I am the eldest of my sisters and the second-oldest among my siblings. I excel in wind magic and divination, particularly the art of scrying."

After finishing, she smiles, easy and kind.

Kiran isn't quite sure what to believe. Unquestionably, giving one's affinities is a sign of trust—one could determine weaknesses from that after all—but how truthful could her statement be?

She is still a stranger after all.

Her smile fades slightly as she notices his hesitation.

"Then perhaps my name?"

One could obtain many things from a name, false or otherwise. If it is truthful, one could figure out a stranger's loyalties, or at the very least, their homeland. If it is false, one could discern an assailant's interests—whether they sought to deceive to stir up animosity by giving another's name or simply to obtain information among many other possibilities. There are many things one can obtain from a name.

Additionally, there is one other factor that favored the woman's claims.

She had not killed or even attempted to harm him yet.

Thus, he nods, an affirmation.

"Very well then. My name is Gunnthrá."

* * *

It is difficult to wake up and get back into routine on the first day of the next year. As always, whether one is a salaryman, a mage or another profession, it is difficult to return to work after lazing about.

Kiran is no exception, but like everyone else, he must.

Walking about the castle, he can see the aftermath of New Year's Eve. From soldier to servant to even the occasional Hero, everyone seemed sluggish and unenthused. In some cases, he notices the telltale signs of a hangover.

But like everyone else, they must continue.

* * *

Kiran remembers his dreams of course. He could chalk up one or even two comparable dreams to happenstance or some other Freudian excuse, but three is simply too much. Furthermore, Gunnthrá's presence does not help.

She had been too lucid, too sensible, for a supposed hallucination. There had been no lunacy, no hint of dream logic, in her actions.

Thus, he, in search of Alfonse, finds himself on the way to the library today. On particularly sunny days such at this, Alfonse often enjoyed reading in the solitude of the library.

He could look for someone else of course, but Anna is busy with overseeing the festival cleanup, and Sharena is not all too versed in matters pertaining to individuals outside of Askr. She has a basic understanding of other cultures of course, but it would not be enough to determine Gunnthrá's origins.

Furthermore, between Anna and Alfonse, Alfonse is the more proficient of the two when it comes to cultural dress—a perk of his near-encyclopedic knowledge. If Gunnthrá is a pseudonym, then he would at least have the lead with her manner of dress and her abilities.

(Of course, he understands that the woman could have disguised herself, especially in a dream, but there isn't much else to go on. At the very least, Alfonse would likely be able to narrow down the list of possibilities.)

Thankfully, Alfonse is in the library as he should be.

"Summoner? What brings you here today?" Alfonse's gaze is inquisitive. Kiran spends time in the library of course. He is an avid reader, but he and Alfonse often had different schedules. While Kiran preferred to visit during the late evening, Alfonse favored the time just before lunch.

"Ah, Alfonse. I need to ask you something. It's about my dreams."

Alfonse raises an eyebrow at that, not out of dismissiveness but rather curiosity.

"Oh? Is it nightmares? If so, I think the infirmary should have a tonic or tea for that."

"Ah, no." Kiran is a bit sheepish at that. He should have been clearer. Though, how did one broach such a subject without appearing delusional or overly paranoid?

"It has to do with a woman. I keep seeing in her my dreams."

"Oh. Uh, I appreciate the amount of trust you have in me, but I do not think I am the best-suited for lov—"

"No!" Thankfully, the library is vacant outside of the two of them—a consequence of festival cleanup and other such duties of course.

A faint blush tinges both of their cheeks. Neither of them are particularly comfortable with love nor courtship.

"I mean—sorry for shouting—but the woman in my dreams spoke to me, lucidly I mean. I think she might be a mage or something of that sort."

It isn't a particularly eloquent statement, but it serves its purpose.

Alfonse's eyes grow serious at that.

"Are you sure? What did she look like? Did you learn anything else about her?"

Alfonse closes his book then, making sure to place a bookmark first.

It is a bit surprising how easily Alfonse believes him, but Kiran begins anyway.

After Kiran's explanation finishes, Alfonse speaks, "Your description matches up with Gunnthrá, one of Nifl's royals. Though, I have not seen her since the arranged marriage fell through, but Nifl's royalty are known for their skills in dreamwalking."

"Arranged marriage?" It isn't particularly relevant to their current conversation, but Kiran is curious as always.

"Ah…it was years ago, but Sharena was originally promised to Nifl's crown prince—to tie our kingdoms together in an alliance. Though our father eventually reconsidered; he had not wanted to anger Múspell. Of course, we still trade with them, but outside of supplying weapons and the trade, we don't interfere in their inter-kingdom rivalries all too much."

Kiran vaguely recognizes those names. He knows of Nifl as an excellent source of wine imports (courtesy of Virion) and of its cold climate, and Múspell is an inferno, but otherwise, both kingdoms are complete mysteries. While he had studied Nifl and Múspell briefly as a part of his tactician training, it had not been the priority. Instead, it had been something assigned to him as extra reading material.

He had not ignored it of course, but there are dozens of kingdoms, states, and provinces. He had not been able to get to them all yet.

Perhaps, Alfonse recognizes his confusion, but he explains, "Nifl is a kingdom to the east. Despite their climate or perhaps because of it, they are a nation known primarily for their crafts—porcelain, alcohol, that sort of thing—and their merchants. Their wyverns in particular are unique; they can thrive indefinitely in the cold as well as in the warmer temperatures here. Unlike most members of their species, they do not experience brumation. That particular trait, combined with the treacherous mountain ranges, makes Nifl a difficult place to invade and defend against. Most wyverns and pterippi would be unable to survive a full campaign without extensive care."

Alfonse pauses for a moment to catch his breath before continuing.

"They're also known, unsurprisingly, for their wind magic—primarily the spell branches dealing with frost. On Múspell, they are a nation of conquerors and miners. Their lands, despite the rather harsh conditions, are home to a plethora of minerals and gems. You can consider them an almost-opposite to Nifl really, both in climate and in foreign affairs. Nifl—outside of trade agreements and matters relating to national defense—almost never interferes in another nation's dealings. Honestly, I believe that if their climate and relationship with Múspell were not as they are, they would have already turned to an isolationist policy."

"Why would Múspell invade if their resources are plentiful? Couldn't they trade?" That didn't make much sense to Kiran.

Alfonse's voice is patient, as if expecting Kiran's questions. Undoubtedly after months of working with him, he should be prepared for Kiran's inanity.

"Because minerals cannot feed a nation, Summoner. Certainly, their fertile soils lend well to farming, but most edible plants cannot survive the heat of Múspell. The people that live there survive by hunting what little creatures roam there—primarily smaller game and the occasional deer and wyvern. Furthermore, there are only so many minerals one needs—whether for creating a staff or simply for ornamentation. There are only so many willing buyers, especially with their ruler's…temperament."

Kiran prods a bit more.

"Temperament?"

"Yes, temperament. Múspell's ruler is a difficult man, charismatic but difficult. He is prone to invading and destroying other kingdoms, both for their lands and for his own enjoyment. That is part of the reason why my father withdrew from the arranged marriage with Nifl, and why we only supply weapons to them now rather than engaging directly. Nifl and its surrounding kingdoms are a buffer between Askr and Múspell. While we appreciate their contributions, Askr does not want to directly anger Múspell bring attention to ourselves."

"But, back to the matter at hand." Alfonse, smart man that he is, cuts off Kiran's next question. Otherwise, they would most likely be there for hours—or until someone sought them for dinner anyway.

"While it truly may be Gunnthrá, I would be cautious on what information you share with her and how you act, both for Askr's safety and for your own. I would also advise you to be careful on how attached you may become to her."

Alfonse's words are not all too out of character; he holds the same view on Heroes of course. Though, his track record isn't all too clean on that aspect. Kiran does notice how often he spends time with Eliwood and Reinhardt after all.

"I would suggest that you to buy some talismans and perhaps a dreamcatcher as well. I personally do not believe in such things—evil spirits and the like—but it does not hurt to be careful. If you choose to do so, ask Anna for more details. She is more knowledgeable on those matters."

Conversation continues, progressing to lighter subjects such as tonight's dinner (carrot is still on the menu unfortunately), book recommendations, and the new recruits' training.

Later, as lunchtime approaches, Kiran bids Alfonse a farewell and makes his way towards the dining hall.

Certainly, they could walk together, but Alfonse has always been a late arrival to meals.

* * *

For the next few nights, Gunnthrá does not appear in his dreams—neither as a doppelgänger nor as herself. Rather, his dreams are surprisingly normal, bland and fleeting. Neither nightmare nor delight, they fade from memory upon waking.

On Askr itself, life returns to normalcy for the most part. He meets with the other tacticians, reviews reports and paperwork with Anna and Alfonse, and so forth.

However, not everything remains the same—the essential segments are different.

There is a burning in his chest—a cacophony akin to Rome's burning. He wants to drown it, drag it to the depths like a mermaid to a guileless sailor, but he cannot, for it is formless, apparent only in its malicious passion. Like the roots of a cypress, it burrows deeply into his heart and upheaves any semblance of rationality.

He cannot drown out the Sirens—no beeswax would suffice.

Certainly, he had hoped that it would fade after the excitement of the Winter Festival—reset with the New Year's—but it does not. Rather, it threads its tendrils throughout his being, dispersing madness like dandelion seeds.

It is a jest played by Eros or perhaps a mistake by Puck. Whatever the reason or source, it does nothing to dispel the charm laid upon his soul or the chains that draw him towards Gehenna.

It is a weakness of the spirit and heart. Simply, mere words should have not drawn such a reaction nor should it have caused such a dilemma.

However, what he loathes most is the humming of his heart—strings plucked like a guqin—and the yearning that accompanies it.

It is a failing on his part—a twisted desire for midsummer's dream to become daybreak's actuality.

And simply, that is what he despises most.

* * *

To melt into the role of narrator and to call upon the Muses, that is certainly easier.

It is easier to become someone else than to consider one's thoughts.

Today, he becomes Atalante, fleeing from her suitors and on another, he is a nameless phoenix returning home in search of a companion. Again and again, their lives intertwine, dovetailing into his own.

Certainly, that is the fate of a storyteller, to be a vessel for another's tale.

Whether one truly lived or if one existed only in fantasy or perhaps a reality distorted by exaggeration, it is the duty of the storyteller to speak, to continue an existence long past and to chase after another's satisfaction.

Perhaps tomorrow, he will sail on the wine-dark sea.

* * *

Today, Anna calls him into her office. It is expected of course; he had asked her to procure him some talismans after all.

(He could have asked Tharja or Henry, but even after months of working together, he isn't quite comfortable with them or rather, they had become no less intimidating.)

Anna's office is a small place, tucked into the corners of one of the higher floors. Despite what he materialism would suggest, her office isn't all too decorated. A potted plant—leaves green and newly watered—sits near the window, curtains ajar and sunlight peering in. Two bookshelves line the walls behind her desk, and a plush rug covers the stone flooring.

Overall, it a quaint sort of place, more fitting for a soldier than commander.

The talisman is small, fitting into the palm of his hand and circular in shape like a coin. A red ribbon is knotted through the coin's center. It shimmers in the light.

"Keep it beside you as you sleep alright?"

Kiran nods, ready to leave until he hears Anna's voice again.

"Though, that isn't all I need to speak to you about today. Maybe you can take a seat?"

Her voice is uncharacteristically serious.

The chair is uncomfortable, especially with Anna's gaze on him.

His thoughts race—from the reasonable to the unreasonable. Did he forget to turn in a report? Was he going to be dismissed? Or perhaps she wanted to reprimand him for improper conduct?

(Anna is kind, easy to approach despite her title of commander. But, he also remembers his younger years, when a boy—name erased by the sand of the hourglass—had appeared too feminine, too out of the ordinary. It had started small, ribbing here and there as boys are prone to, until it simply wasn't.

Stolen gym clothes, a dislocated shoulder from a foul in basketball, and broken fingers in a doorway.

"Boys will boys" as the saying goes.

Even the girls had gotten in on it in their own little way. As children are prone to do—especially in a town like Watersmeet—they gossip, twisting the truth until it suits their fancies. Even the most amicable of the bunch hadn't interfered, only listened as one would listen to the morning radio.

But, he could not blame them. That would speak to hypocrisy, a pretense and mockery of Lady Columbia. He certainly hadn't done anything either. He had merely dimmed the blinds and turned elsewhere—a wallflower as someone would call it. Perhaps it had been too self-absorbed, but certainly what else could one expect?

As much as he wishes otherwise, heroes only existed in fairy tales—Charlemagne's paladins, the Knights of the Round Table, bold Heracles, the list went on.

It had escalated until it simply…stopped—rope knotted and dangling from a branch too low.

It had been on the local news, nothing requiring national attention. It had simply been a normalcy, something that one didn't talk about in polite company and another town secret to bury behind the barn.

Certainly, those sorts of matters would be a blemish on transcripts, but it had been easy enough to wipe it away—spilled water upon a coffee table.

Even the most kind of beings could become a beast in the right company.)

It is a bit foolish, but it nags at him in those few moments.

Her eyes soften as she looks at him, fidgeting in his chair. Her ponytail bobs as she leans forward, elbows resting upon her desk.

"Loosen up. I'm not here to reprimand you."

Kiran relaxes somewhat at that, though nervousness still pervades his veins. No sane person would be comfortable in their boss's office in such a situation.

"I don't really know how to ask this, so I'll be frank. What do you plan to do when the war is over?"

"Huh?" His surprise is audible, and his relief is palpable.

Anna is patient. "I mean, do you plan to go home or do you want to stay with us? Obviously, I'd prefer if you stay, but we aren't keeping you prisoner."

Did he want to return to his world? Certainly, he had thought of his parents and of Watersmeet, but he hadn't given all too much thought to returning. There are luxuries that he misses, but those are certainly not the deciding factor.

However, as simple as the decision should theoretically be, he isn't quite sure. Askr is a nice place, one that plays on his childhood daydreams of heroism, but it doesn't quite feel like home should. He enjoys Zenith's eccentricities and undoubtedly the people as well, but it—like Watersmeet—does not feel like home.

"You don't have to decide now if you're not ready. Our war with Embla is nowhere near over. I just want you think about it ya know? Don't want it to be a last-minute decision or anything like that."

That is a particularly easygoing answer, but it soothes him, nonetheless.

"Also, a reminder and last thing before you leave, don't forget to pack. We're making our way to another altar in a few days, near the border with Embla."

Kiran nods before standing.

Thoughts swirling, he leaves.

Why isn't it an easy answer?

* * *

"Why do you fight?"

It is a trite sort of question, one expected from a grade schooler or perhaps a B-list movie, but it encapsulates his doubts.

Certainly, why did _he_ fight? There are the initial ideas of grandeur and heroism, and those indubitably contribute to his own ideals, but are they the only justifications? There must be something more, something after the storm—a rainbow after the flood so to speak.

He could consider the idea of peace, make it wholly his, However, it rings hollow—the chime of a shrine's bell, heard and then stilled for prayer. To say and to believe are two entirely different beasts. Of course, one could lie, but it is akin to a moral demise.

Certainly, he wants to answer the riddle in his heart rather than wait for the gaping jaws of the Sphynx.

Perhaps then he could decide.

Lucius tilts his head inquisitively, eyes contemplative and hair golden like autumn wheat and falling gently like summer rain. It is an image that even Sif, high upon her seat, would envy.

(It is uncomfortable, exceedingly uncomfortable to stain his presence with his—ink droplet upon white silk—but he is selfish, as man ought to be. Their predecessors' mistakes assured that.)

Today, they have returned to the infirmary—its stone walls familiar as always.

Kiran waits, already expecting the answer to be something noble or even selfless. Perhaps he wished to protect the weak? Or mayhap eradicate injustice?

He doesn't quite expect Lucius's answer, conflicting as it is with his image of the man.

"Because I have to."

It is simple, concise and efficient.

The surprise in Kiran's voice is obvious as he speaks.

"Really? What do you mean?"

He understands the basic implications of Lucius's reply, but everything else is a mystery—shrouded in fog and lamplight.

Lucius hums, voice soothing as a river flowing and fingers deftly moving to tie the twine around his current project. Kiran doesn't mind all too much. It isn't a dismissive action, but merely something to do while he deliberates. Certainly, after all of their time together, he could understand that.

He waits until Lucius's fingers cease, their owner finding an adequate answer.

Stopping his humming, Lucius replies again, "Because I have to. I dislike fighting, but I have to."

"Oh, so you want to protect people?" That is simple enough to understand. Lucius didn't quite outright say it, but he knows him well enough.

"In part, but I wish it could be otherwise. Violence…it is a ceaseless endeavor, is it not? Even as peace approaches, we—breath seized—await for the next struggle."

Soft, sad, and pensive. Those are the words that describe Lucius's eyes in that moment. It is quite unlike their last conversation on the matter.

He continues, "It is a foolish desire, but one that I hold, nonetheless. I wish that conflict did not exist, that disease did not exist, but that, in itself, is an impossibility."

He sighs, weariness obvious. Perhaps it a bit of a strange thing to notice, but Lucius's age is most apparent in this moment. Kiran notices the dark circles and the barest hint of fine lines at the corner of his eyes. In all likelihood, Lucius's odd sleep schedule does not help matters.

A faint sigh once again, and a silence descends, difficult to bear.

"You told me a story of your world, yes? The one dealing with the reason for suffering?"

Lucius's voice startles him, but Kiran nods. They have gone on quite the tangent, but it isn't something that Kiran minds all too much. There must be a point to these detours.

"I apologize in advance if this offends you; I do not mean this as an insult, but I simply do not believe it—that there is a greater reason for suffering or that it is a punishment for some ancestor's affront."

He breathes, and Kiran notices the blue of his eyes—darkened as the deep sea—and the furrowing of his brow.

"Simply put, man…they are the one responsible for their fate and their actions. Assuredly, avarice exists in the hearts of men, but that is merely a consequence of free will—not of some greater sin. Likewise, we are responsible for using our gifts for the benefit of others."

Kiran feels a sense of confusion at that, but he does not interject. Lucius does not seem like he is done speaking.

"To relate it to your initial question, I fight to protect others, yes, but perhaps it is a selfish desire as well, contradictory as it sounds."

"How so?" Kiran cannot hide his confusion then.

"Do you ever think about the rivaling armies we face? The bandits? Not everyone we face can be considered corrupt. Certainly, banditry is not a moral endeavor, but do we consider the ethical implications of our actions in the midst of combat? Or perhaps the reasoning of our enemies? We do not. We seek only to survive—to protect and to live."

Kiran shakes his head. He hadn't given it all too much thought. Why would he in a war?

"Every existence upon this earth seeks to live—whether it be the fig tree, the swallow, or the lion. This awareness is both a gift and a curse—we seek to take because of an awareness of our own mortality, as a way to extend our lives, but it is also this understanding that connects us as living beings."

There is a pause—a dip in the conversation—before Lucius continues.

"You think of me as a saint."

It is not a question, but rather, a statement, one that Kiran could not disagree with, not without lying to the heavens and to all eyes watching.

"I find it flattering really"—a sweet laugh as clear and vibrant as a Wood Thrush, neither mocking nor conceited—"but I am not. I am as selfish as anyone else."

Kiran wants to disagree, but Lucius continues anyway.

"I am afraid of death, and that is why I heal and why I fight. I am afraid of my loved ones perishing, and most of all, _I_ am afraid of dying."

* * *

Tonight, he is no closer to finishing his portrait. In fact, he had discarded the old canvas—the layers thick with his mistakes. After an hour of painting (if his messy strokes could be called that), Kiran feels the heat of frustration.

Lucius's words do not help either. They linger in his mind, evident as peach blossoms cascading in the wind. There is no anger of course (that would be unreasonable), but rather, his words do not help.

Kiran is no closer to understanding his own feelings nor is he closer to deciding.

Naturally, he has time; Anna had assured him, but it frustrates him, nonetheless.

Why should it be a hard decision? He has nothing waiting for him after all.

Perhaps, that is why he is on the way to the library—lantern in hand— rather than in bed. Kiran would rather stew in his thoughts over a book rather than in his bed. At least with the former, he could at least make a half-hearted attempt at distracting himself.

He expects to be alone in the library. Certainly, it had not been any different on his other visits.

The library is a massive place—bookshelves reaching towards the heavens and stuffed with words, both new and old. The shelves are finely crafted, made from a strong mahogany. Near each section, he sees a library ladder, set aside for the harder to reach books.

His steps are silent for the most part, muffled by the rug. Above from the cathedral ceiling, a chandelier hangs—prisms dangling like grape clusters from a branch.

Thus, it a bit of surprise when he stumbles upon Alfonse—sitting at a table beneath one of the windows. An oil lamp—light dimmed behind the glass but still visible—rests at the center of the table. Stacks of paper surround him, and an ink well, ink quill still dipped, sits near the oil lamp.

It is nowhere near as crowded as Robin's desk, but it is a good impression.

His presence startles Kiran at first, especially with the added addition of moonlight. In the dim of the moon, Alfonse, at first glance, had seemed like a ghost—dark messy hair and pallid skin. Certainly, Askr Castle is ancient enough for the presence of spirits. Though, it simply could be a consequence of his American sensibilities. "Ancient" to an American meant a few hundred years, not thousands like for their oversea neighbors.

Perhaps it is an aftereffect of his conversations with Anna, but he is a bit more easily spooked nowadays. It isn't intentional maliciousness of course, but Anna is fond of her ghost stories and of her hometown. It is only coincidence that the two tended to frequently coincide.

In particular, he had learned quite a bit about her hometown—a little place near the northwestern borders of Askr—and her family during their little leisure time chats. Anna is the middle child of three and the daughter of farmers. Personally, the latter bit of information is somewhat surprising. With her love of money, he would expect her to be related to merchants or mayhap, storekeepers, anything to do with coin and not the soil.

His surprise at the time had been obvious to Anna or perhaps, she was simply used to those sort of reactions. She had been goodhearted about it, anyway, playing off his surprise with a laugh and a tease.

"Yeah, I know right? You wouldn't think I was a farmer. Well, "farmer-in-training" as mom would put it. I enjoyed it a lot as well, but my calling was simply different, ya know?" There is a bit of wistfulness in her voice.

He had asked about it of course, her calling. If she had enjoyed farming so much, why wasn't that her vocation?

She had replied easy enough, bits and pieces about wanting to travel, tidbits about her family's financial difficulties, and about her almost-prodigal affinity with the axe.

"…though most importantly, I wanted to change things, as childish as it sounds. Living near the border is hard, you know? We're a farming village, but not one of the major suppliers for the nobility. Our king tries his best, but he must act in the interest of the group."

She had sighed, hand pressed against her cheek and elbow upon her desk.

"Sharena and Alfonse are too young to remember, but the war with Embla used to be much worst when the Emblian emperor was in control—regular border skirmishes and raids, backroom dealings and spies, the whole shebang. Even afterwards, when the empress took control, we had multiple conflicts, always rogue" —she had made an air quote around that—"soldiers disobeying orders. Of course, the empress is a kind woman, by all accounts, genuine as well from what I heard, but she can only control so much without the support of her people and her advisors."

She leaned forward then, ponytail bobbing with her movements.

"Of course, we still have spies and traitors now, but much less so. Who would be willing to tell with a ruler like Veronica? Her bloodthirstiness—combined with her age and without her father's renown—actually plays into our favor. No _sane_ Askrian is going to risk her. She did publicly execute the advisors who put her into power alongside the few dissenters—wasn't content with being a figurehead and all."

She paused to catch her breath before continuing, "We lost some good people when she did that as well; you catch the weakest link, and you might catch them all. But anyways…enough prattle from me. To return to your original question and away from the boring history lesson, my village was often attacked during the war. Though we were always quite lucky—the dam breaking and washing away the Emblians' equipment, one of the watchmen spotting them early, and so forth. On one occasion, I even heard them fleeing the forest, no fighting required—that place was always creepy, ya know? Weird shadows and bodiless voices, but also a reliable place for foraging, so it evens out I guess. Always hated going by myself though; I always made one of my sisters or the local boys go with me."

Kiran had nodded, fascinated. It wasn't often that he got to hear those sorts of tales from the source.

"Honestly, I think Askr was protecting us, doing what the king couldn't. I mean, it's understandable in his position, but not for us." Despite her smile, there was no mirth in her eyes.

"But! That's a bit depressing to end on, right? How 'bout I tell you something more lighthearted as compensation?"

And thus, they had moved onto her town and to ghost stories—Anna's idea of "lighthearted." She talked about night hags, witches in the forest, and even a body that had been found in her neighbor's well and the exorcism that followed—shaman, offerings, and spewing chicken blood and all.

Though perhaps it was lighthearted for her; it is something normal.

Whatever the reason, it certainly doesn't stop the squeak that escapes his mouth—more fit for a mouse or a toy dog than a grown man—at what he had presumed to be a ghost.

"Summoner?" Alfonse squints. Despite the light of their lanterns and the moonlight from the window, the library is still quite dark and not at all helped by the rather overcast sky outside.

"Yeah, it's me." Kiran is embarrassed, but at the very least, Alfonse hadn't commented on his squeak.

He makes his way towards Alfonse's table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. Afterwards, he sets his lantern down next to Alfonse's.

"What do you have there anyway? You're usually not here at this hour."

Alfonse shuffles the papers in front of him before organizing them into a neat stack.

"They're reports from the eastern border. We've had an increasing number of refugees lately."

That surprises Kiran, both in its content and for other reasons.

"Didn't Anna ban you from taking reports for the week? You're supposed to be focusing on training the recruits."

It isn't about withholding information, but rather, about Alfonse's own work ethic. He works too much and rests too little.

(It actually reminds Kiran of someone else, but he wouldn't quite say it out loud.)

As a result, after Alfonse's stint during the Winter Festival, Anna had barred him from the reports as an attempt to lighten his self-imposed workload. Though, she could not strip him of all his duties, such as with the recruits. While they had many Heroes efficient with the sword, none of them held the trust of the recruits like Alfonse. They did not dislike them of course, but it is a matter of intimidation, stemming from the Heroes' legends.

On Sharena, her proficiency lied with the spear, not with the blade. Thus, she could not take over Alfonse's duties. Furthermore, she has already received the responsibility of reading Alfonse's reports. Any more work and it would simply be a swapping of roles.

Alfonse's reply is simple enough, perhaps a bit too nonchalant really.

"I took them from Anna's office. That's why I'm here actually. I thought it'd be too obvious if I returned to my room, so I came here."

There is a bit of disbelief at that, but Alfonse had never really been on formal terms with Anna, at least during Kiran's time here. Furthermore, that—Alfonse's almost-petulant stubbornness—is another of his quirks. If he set his mind to something, he would strive to fulfill it.

"Aren't you the least bit worried she'll be mad?"

"Little bit, but this is more important." He taps his stack of papers.

"Really?" Alfonse's statement stirs a bit of curiosity.

"Yes. As previously state, Askr has been receiving a higher number of refugees lately. While that by itself would be a cause for concern, it is the fact that many of these people are from the east."

Realization sets in.

"Oh! Múspell?"

Alfonse nods.

"Yes. Under normal circumstances, we would not be as worried about them, not with Nifl's presence. They're notoriously hard to invade as I've explained before, and those two kingdoms have always been in a stalemate, but…"

Alfonse frowns then.

"We've been receiving refugees from Nifl as well. Furthermore, Gunnthrá's presence in your dreams is a cause for concern."

Kiran does not quite get it, or rather, he doesn't understand the overabundance of concern, not with Embla still active.

"Isn't Askr well-fortified? You've been dealing with Embla for years, and now, there are Heroes here as well. Múspell doesn't have any, right?"

"Yes," Alfonse agrees, "However, war brings casualties. If we were to be sieged by Múspell, it would mean a conflict on both the western and eastern front. While we do have resources and a fairly sizable army, the cost would be massive, not to mention, the strife it would bring upon the vassals. Some will withdraw their support from the king."

Alfonse sighs, glancing at the reports as if he wished for them to disappear.

"Though, at the moment, our greatest concern is the refugees. Askr cannot support them all. Some will turn to banditry as a result and wreak havoc upon the countryside, and the storehouses will eventually run out. Furthermore, their presence will raise concerns with the nobles as well."

He sighs once more before turning towards Kiran.

"Thus, you can understand why I cannot rest, yes? Even for week."

Kiran nods. He doesn't agree entirely with Alfonse's beliefs, but there isn't much he can do about it. Even if he told Anna, Alfonse would simply find another way to achieve his goals.

He is a stubborn man.

* * *

In his dreams tonight, he returns to Gunnthrá's study. The room is much the same as in his last visit, unchanging as a painting. He takes his seat across from her. Perhaps it is a bit of a bold move, but he's quite sure that she would have invited him to anyway if he stood.

"Hello again, Summoner."

Her voice is calm, maternal in nature.

He nods in return, not quite sure what to say. The talisman had not kept her at bay, but that did not necessarily mean she was trustworthy.

Despite his silence, Gunnthrá isn't all too bothered. She only continues to speak—from simple matters such as today's weather and the dinner menu to polite, but pointed, comments about his outfit.

(It isn't all about aesthetic of course. The frayed sleeves of his overcoat are lightly tinted with brown and black—tea stains and quill ink. In another section, near his spine, the color is slightly off—a square of cream instead of milky white—from a makeshift repair in the World of Awakening. The bottom edges of his coat show signs of damage—leftovers from the first Tempest.

He doesn't look slovenly. Rather, the coat creates a well-traveled look. However, it still isn't quite the look that one would want for their tactician.)

Her comments should be obnoxious, invasive especially from a stranger, but it isn't.

Rather, they remind him of his mother—smile still intact and eyes still present on him.

"You are traveling to Embla tomorrow, correct?"

That startles him out of his thoughts, and his eyes narrow. How would she know that?

He almost begins his question, but Gunnthrá starts first, already expectant of his question.

"I am a prophet in some respects. As I stated last time, one of my hobbies is divination."

She tilts her head, smile still soft. She looks like a porcelain doll in some ways—akin to the figurines his mother kept in the china cabinet next to the grandfather clock. It is in her gaze, expectant and without doubt.

It isn't quite human, or perhaps, Kiran had simply not been around enough people to discern.

She continues, "I did not spy on you of course, but my dreams often lead me towards the future, as unchanging as it is."

"Unchanging?" Certainly, that isn't a common view.

She hums before speaking, "Unchanging isn't quite accurate, but it is similar enough. All paths eventually lead to the same place after all. It is only the journey that remains unique."

She folds her hands. "But to continue, you are making your trip tomorrow, yes?"

Kiran nods. If she knew anyway, why did she need to ask? Perhaps it is simply for politeness's sake.

"Good. Tread carefully with what you summon. Not everyone has a good heart, but that does not mean their advice is always unsound."

Her words confuse Kiran, though Gunnthrá makes no effort to elaborate.

Perhaps it is merely a requirement for clairvoyants—the uncanny ability to be vague in every sense of the word.

He doesn't quite understand her choice of words though.

Why "what?"


End file.
